


Bright Star

by mybelovedcheshire



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Multi, Pontmercy and Feuilly are both female characters., like genuinely just appalling fails at poetry on behalf of the author, misuse of poetry, professor/student relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-12
Updated: 2014-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-05 02:31:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/717843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Courfeyrac falls in love too easily. Everyone knows it. But in his fourth and final year of university, no one really expected him to fall in love with one of his professors. His room-mate, Enjolras, thinks he's asking for trouble -- but Enjolras has enough problems on his plate with his new art professor, a dark-haired cynic of a man named Grantaire. Their friends fill in the gaps, offering advice on classes, relationships, and even poetry as the boys struggle to make it through the semester without getting arrested or expelled. (Arson isn't inappropriate behaviour if your intention was artistic, right?)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Courfeyrac slammed the suite door. 

Enjolras didn’t look up. After three years, he was familiar with all of Courfeyrac’s dramatic entrances, and he knew which ones were serious and which ones to ignore as stoically as possible. He slipped a book into his bag and checked his pockets for his keys. 

“I’M IN LOVE,” Courfeyrac shouted. 

“No, you’re not,” Enjolras nonchalantly replied. “Have you seen my keys?”

Coufeyrac tossed his across the room; Enjolras caught them with one hand, and gave him a puzzled glance. “I won’t need them,” Courfeyrac explained, marching forward. He fell face down on the couch and wailed. “MY LIFE IS OVER.” 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. 

“If your life was over every time you fell in love, you’d have out-lived six cats.” 

“I’m doomed,” Courfeyrac muttered into the cushions. 

Enjolras wrapped a scarf loosely around his neck before he shouldered his bag. “You’ll survive,” he insisted. “I’m late.” 

“Where are--” Courfeyrac stopped and rolled over with an exaggerated grunt so that Enjolras could actually hear him. “Where are you going?” 

“Class,” Enjolras answered, as though that should have been obvious.

Courfeyrac threw a pillow at him. “/Which/ class?”

Which class indeed. “...Art,” Enjolras told him. The reluctant way in which he said it made Courfeyrac grin. 

“I told you to take drama.” 

“You wanted us to take drama together so that you could make out with me in front of the other students.” 

“It would have been my greatest performance.” 

Enjolras walked to the door. “May your love blossom eternally,” he called back in a deadpan. Courfeyrac let out a loud, miserable howl as Enjolras fled. 

He walked into class five minutes after it started with an apology at the tip of his tongue -- but he never got a chance to give it. The professor -- a dark-haired man in his late twenties with a cigarette tucked behind his ear -- waved almost cheerfully at him, and kept talking. 

“So whatever you guys wanna do,” the professor continued as Enjolras slowly slid onto an open chair by the door, “is fine with me. Obviously I’d prefer it if you didn’t burn the building down -- but, hey. If you can prove that you did it artistically, then who am I to stop you?” 

He pulled a lighter out of his pocket and emphatically reached for his cigarette. Enjolras watched with vaguely horrified curiosity. His professors in Humanities and social sciences were very vocally liberal -- which he liked, being quite the radical himself -- but none of them could have held a candle to this man and his apparent indifference. 

“You will create,” the man explained while he waited for the cigarette to light. When it started to smolder he sucked in a few quick breaths and then held it out, “even if you have to destroy to do it. Beauty in the ashes, blah blah.” The other students murmured appreciatively. Enjolras bit his lip just to check that his jaw hadn’t dropped to the table. 

One girl courageously raised her hand. The professor stared at her with a coy smirk as he smoked. Eventually she gave in and asked: “Professor-- if we have no set assignments, how do we pass?” 

“You can start by never calling me ‘Professor’ again.” 

The girl exchanged a slightly mortified expression with her friend.

“I’m an artist,” he explained. “You’re all artists now. This is a communist, artists’ environment, and you can call me Grantaire, or--” He grinned. “Just R.”

The room was silent.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-- R. /Grand R/? You all are useless. Be grateful that wasn’t a pop quiz.” A few students suddenly looked nervous, and Grantaire rolled his eyes. “There will be no pop fucking quizzes in this class. Jesus Christ. This is INTRO ART.”

There were a few awkward laughs, but the girl who had raised her hand spoke up again. She hadn’t gotten an actual answer to her question. “What are we graded on, then? How do we pass this class?”

“Define pass,” Grantaire replied. 

She straightened her shoulders in a motion that was meant to seem self-confident. “I’d like an 18, ideally.”

“Then make me something that you think deserves an 18,” Grantaire told her. “Or don’t--” Enjolras’s eyes narrowed, “--but I should inform you now I guess that because the people in charge of this university are giant bags of dicks,” he stopped to take a long drag from his cigarette. Several students smiled. “I do have to have one physical art submission from each of you before I can let you pass.”

“As opposed to what?” Enjolras asked. “A metaphorical one?”

All eyes -- except, notably, the professor’s -- turned to him. Instead, Grantaire idly examined his dirty fingernails before he asked: “Do you know what a metaphor is?”

Enjolras’s expression was suspicious, but he kept his bright, blue gaze unfalteringly focused on the scruffy, dark-haired man in the middle of the room. “It’s a figure of speech,” he replied. “A phrase meant to resemble the concept in question, but not be a literal rendition.”

“Do you study history?”

“Political science.”

“So you’re not really familiar with creativity.”

“Possibly more than you are with politics,” Enjolras answered. 

Grantaire looked up. “Colour me impressed,” he replied with a fascinated smile. 

Enjolras was not amused. He felt like he was being mocked. 

But the artist-who-refused-to-be-addressed-as-professor turned away from him before Enjolras had the chance to get in a second comeback. Grantaire stubbed his unfinished cigarette out on a easel and tucked it behind his ear again -- a habit he had picked up from a friend. 

“To be honest, I’m not really into politics,” Grantaire told his class. He hopped onto a stool in the middle of the room and swivelled around, drumming his fingers against the seat. “I think it’s all kind of stupid-- did you know we’re not supposed to discuss any of this with you guys? Talk about dumb fucking policy-- but I guess they’re afraid one of the old monarchists they have hiding in the English department will poison your minds--” he made a comically horror-struck expression, “--and drag you over to the dark side.” 

Most of the students laughed. Most of them had encountered one of the monarchists in question -- or worse, one of the ultra-conservative capitalists in the Maths department. 

“The truth is... and I know this may be hard for some of you to accept -- nothing means anything.”

Enjolras felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. 

“Not politics, not art, not even cigarettes.” Everyone but Enjolras grinned. “Absolutely nothing has purpose-- it’s all just fabrication by hopeless people to make our lives seem valuable-- but that’s okay. It is. We’re doing this absurd little dance in one impossibly tiny corner of the universe for a fraction of time so infinitesimal that we cannot physically contemplate it if we actually tried-- hey, you know what? What a great first assignment.”

A groan rippled through the group, and Grantaire cackled. “Take it up with your friend over there,” he told them, pointing at Enjolras. “Extra credit if you make something artistic of it. In the meantime -- I don’t care what you do, but give me something by the end of the week that represents what--” He made a face and spoke over his shoulder to Enjolras. “Is is post-modernism, or nihilism?”

“Existential nihilism,” Enjolras answered through clenched teeth. 

“That-- what Blue-Eyes said. What that means to you.”

“What if we don’t want to?” A tall boy on the opposite side of the room asked. 

“Then don’t fuckin’ do it,” Grantaire answered. “Christ, were /any/ of you listening?”

***

Courfeyrac flopped off the couch. His phone was in his pocket and ringing loudly, but to answer it he had to dig it out -- and he was too preoccupied with his own misery to just sit up and grab it. He had to roll over -- flail wildly -- and land on the floor (and his face) before he could get to it. 

When he saw that it was a text from Joly, and not any of the twenty plus people he would have slept with in an effort to get a certain crush out of his mind, he yelled angrily. And then he feverishly typed three replies back with his cheek pressed into the carpet.

[text] Joly: Lunch?  
[text] Courf: where  
[text] Courf: I’M IN LOVE  
[text] Courf: have lunch with me anyway

If Joly was surprised, scared, or bothered by the news, he didn’t mention it. 

[text] Joly: Café. Meet you in ten?  
[text] Courf: bring a hot friend

Courfeyrac crawled off the ground slowly. He didn’t really want to move. He didn’t want to do anything. Well-- he wanted to do one thing, but since that option was at least temporarily unavailable to him, he was comfortable admitting that he would have rather stayed on the floor bemoaning his existence than getting up and going out to lunch.

But he also admitted that he did actually like Joly quite a bit (great kisser, he mused as he redid his pink bowtie), and he liked food, and if he was honest -- he was kind of hungry. 

None of those later admissions kept him from dragging his feet the whole way to the café. He even kept shuffling as he sent a text to Enjolras -- because Enjolras had his keys, and Courfeyrac had none -- insisting that Enjolras be home to greet him on pain of sex.

[text] Courf: either you and me, or me and somebody else and I conveniently forget to leave a sock on the door  
[text] Courf: you’re still totes welcome to join  
[text] Courf: i’ll make sure he’s a sex kitten  
[text] Courf: LIKE THE LOVE OF MY LIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIFE

Quite a lot more than ten minutes had passed when he finally sauntered into his favourite of all the on-campus dining options. In terms of food, Café Musain ranked among the lowest of the low (and yet, it was still better than Corinthe -- which bordered on ‘not fit for human consumption’). In terms of drinks, it was mediocre. But when you factored in the people that liked to hang out there (namely himself and his friends), it was really the only place to be. 

Joly was waiting for him at a table in the corner, with his nose buried in an anatomy textbook. Courfeyrac snuck up behind him and slipped his hands over Joly’s eyes. 

“Guess who?” He asked in a falsetto voice.

“Courfeyrac,” Joly answered.

Courfeyrac whined and made a face. “How’d you know?”

“Because you’re the only person on earth who plays that game.”

Courfeyrac fell into the chair beside Joly in much the same way that he’d fallen onto the couch, and then the floor only a short while ago. “You’re no fun.”

“I know, I’m pre-med.”

That at least brought a smile to Courfeyrac’s mouth. For a moment, that is -- because he then demanded: “Where’s the hot friend I asked you to bring?”

Joly turned the page. “Won’t you be insulted if I give that title to anyone but you?”

Courfeyrac considered it. “Yes.”

“You’re the hot friend.”

Courfeyrac grinned and leaned back. “Why yes, I am.” He beamed, and in the same breath asked: “Are you planning on eating your book?”

Joly put his head down with a groan. “If it meant getting all of this to stick, I would.” He had always known that becoming a doctor wouldn’t be easy. He was prepared, both emotionally and mentally, for the challenge -- but that didn’t make certain aspects of his studies enjoyable. Anatomy and physiology, for example, were actually critical -- and he was fairly certain (having just reread a section on the human brain) that he wasn’t physically capable of retaining all of the information he needed to know. 

Courfeyrac tutted, grabbed his arm, and hauled him up from the table. “Come on,” he insisted. “You may not have known this, but real, human food actually helps with these things.”

“Can we get real food here?” Joly whispered as Courfeyrac dragged him to the counter.

They got the nearest equivalent and retreated to their seats. 

As they ate, Joly -- who, unlike Enjolras, hadn’t been exposed to Courfeyrac long enough to want to run and hide from the blunt and racy details of his romantic adventures -- had the generosity of spirit to ask about Courfeyrac’s latest crush.

Courfeyrac -- utterly unhindered by the people around them -- whined loudly. Joly smiled. 

“He’s just so perfect,” Courfeyrac gushed. ‘He’s gorgeous, and he’s brilliant, and he’s so sweet, and really romantic. I can’t stop thinking about him.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jean Prouvaire.”

Joly blinked and put down his too-questionable-to-eat sandwich. “Prouvaire? Isn’t that Cosette’s advisor? He teaches--”

“POETRY,” Courfeyrac shouted. “He teaches POETRY and I’m shit at poetry! And Cosette says he goes by ‘Jehan’ because it’s like the mediaeval version or something, and he just really likes that stuff which is just...” He slumped forward with his head in his hand and sighed dreamily.

“And that explains the ‘hot friend’,” Joly realised. “Because he’s a teacher.”

“Yes,” Courfeyrac answered with a sob. “And astronomically out of my league-- okay, well. Not really, because let’s be serious, but it wouldn’t be easy. And he’s just so good looking. He’s got curly blond hair, like Enjolras, but he’s kind of slight and willowy, you know? He had it in a braid with a green ribbon...” Courfeyrac trailed off. He had a faraway look in his eyes.

Joly picked at the bowl of fruit he’d gotten as a side. “So you’re in his class?”

“Yeah.”

“So you’ve only met him once.”

It was the first day of the semester. Actually, it was the first day of the first semester of their final year at the university, which was why Joly was panicking about everything and Enjolras was reluctantly taking art, and Courfeyrac was taking whatever electives he wanted for lack of anything better to do. Poetry wasn’t his strong suit, but Cosette had said it would be fun. 

Courfeyrac pouted. He should have known better than to trust that minx. 

“Courfeyrac?”

“What?”

“You’ve only seen him once.”

Coufeyrac shook his head and pulled out his phone. “No, look-- I Googled him. HE’S TOO BEAUTIFUL, JOLY. I’M DONE FOR.” He thrust his phone under Joly’s nose. 

The pre-med student sat back with a slight wince. The pitch of Courfeyrac’s voice was dangerously high. “He is cute,” Joly consented as he scrolled through pictures. “How old is he, though?”

“Twenty-six.”

Joly didn’t question how Courfeyrac knew. 

“So young,” Courfeyrac whined. “So brilliant.”

But Joly wasn’t listening anymore. A girl on the other side of the café -- a very attractive girl with curly brown hair and an impressively catty smile -- had his attention. Courfeyrac looked up.

The girl blew Joly a kiss. 

Joly’s grey eyes widened to the size of saucers and a red tinge bloomed across his cheeks. 

Courfeyrac’s grin stretched across the full width of his face. “Who is she?” He demanded. 

The girl walked out, and Joly took a sudden, deep breath. “I don’t know,” he answered quietly. “She’s a student at the medical college, but I don’t know her name-- we’ve never spoken.”

“SHE THINKS YOU’RE HOT,” Courfeyrac told him loudly. Joly cringed. 

Apparently she did, whoever she was. And-- well, if he was honest, he thought she was gorgeous too. (She was absurdly pretty, and had perfect, warm brown eyes. And she wore bright red lipstick, which made Courfeyrac stare.) But he had no idea who she was-- or where to find her-- or how to approach her-- and he certainly didn’t have the wit to follow her, or he’d have done it any of the four times this had happened. 

“Well!” Courfeyrac shouted. “Tell me more!” 

Joly covered his face with one hand.

“Joly,” Courfeyrac insisted. “Until I convince a university professor to fuck me on his desk--” Joly bit his lip to keep from smiling, “--I am trapped in a sexual tidepool. I need this information. I need you to get that girl. I have to live vicariously through you and Enjolras, and we all know how helpful he is on that front.”

“He’s not very good at falling in love.”

Courfeyrac snorted. “No-- he’s shit at it. He’s worse at falling in love than I am at poetry, because he can actually do it. He’s just in love with a country, an incorporeal concept, and a dead, historical guy. He needs an intervention.” Joly grinned. “So, please. Tell me everything there is to know about this beautiful, tangible, living, breathing girl.”

***

“Joly has a hot girl stalker person thing!” Courfeyrac announced as he burst into the suite a second time. 

“I don’t care,” Enjolras called back sourly. 

Courfeyrac’s eyebrows practically shot into his hair. He closed the door gently. “Bad day?”

Enjolras grunted. He was in the living room, typing furiously on his laptop. Courfeyrac approached cautiously. There was Enjolras’s typical bad attitude, and then there were his politically-driven bad moods -- the latter were not something that Courfeyrac fucked with, ever. 

“What happened?” He asked. 

“I’m dropping art,” Enjolras growled.

Courfeyrac immediately rolled his eyes. “Oh my god, Enjolras.” His concern and caution vanished as he stomped over and flopped down on top of his roommate. “You asshole.”

“Courfeyrac!”

“No! You deserve this. I thought this was /serious/.”

Enjolras pushed his laptop on to the coffee table to keep from dropping it as Courfeyrac sprawled out. “This is important!” He seethed. “I need a Fine Arts elective but nothing fits my schedule!”

“I told you to take drama,” Courfeyrac replied, looping his arms around Enjolras. 

Enjolras glared at him. “There’s enough drama sitting in my lap right now.”

Courfeyrac smirked. “So, what’s wrong with art?”

“The professor is a fucking joke.”

“Eponine said he was cool.” 

The look on Enjolras’s face suggested he was considering forcibly evicting Courfeyrac from his lap.

“So what are you going to do then?” Courfeyrac asked. 

Enjolras reached over him. “I’m emailing my advisor,” he explained, putting his laptop on Courfeyrac’s knees. “Either I need an override for a class that works, or we’re going to have to get the dean to sign off on me skipping this requirement.” 

Courfeyrac watched him type. “Do you think it’ll work?” 

“It has to,” Enjolras answered with an assurity that made Courfeyrac smile. If there was one thing that separated Enjolras from other people, it was his complete faith in all things to end the right way -- even if it meant cracking his knuckles and doing everything himself. 

“So, Joly’s got this girl,” Courfeyrac said after a brief pause. He rested his head on Enjolras’s shoulder. 

Enjolras kept typing, but murmured: “Good for him.”

“He says she’s in the medical school-- she looks like she’s in her mid-twenties. She’s really good-looking though-- dark hair and eyes. She blew a kiss at him, and I swear to God, I thought he was going to die.” 

Courfeyrac kept rambling while Enjolras e-mailed copies of his schedule and the course numbers of classes he was willing to take to replace his current elective to his advisor, the head of the Fine Arts department, and the dean. He consciously avoided CCing ‘R’ on any of them. He didn’t even mention the nihilistic artist in his excuses for wanting to abandon his class. If his professors wanted to include Grantaire in the discussion, that was their business. 

Enjolras never wanted to see or speak to him again.


	2. Chapter 2

Cosette groaned and buried her face in the blanket she and Courfeyrac had stretched out on. “Courf! Just pay attention! It’s not that hard!”

“You’re a liar, Fauchelevent!” Courfeyrac told her, tossing the paper into the air in the hopes that the wind would catch it and carry it far, far away. It didn’t -- the paper landed on his chest -- and he grumbled. “You said this class would be fun.”

“It is!” Cosette insisted, sitting up again. “Poetry is beautiful!”

“Jehan is beautiful,” Courfeyrac muttered. “Poetry is awful.”

“For God’s sake.”

Courfeyrac seized the paper to smash it into a ball but Cosette tore it out of his hands. She put it down, grabbed Courfeyrac by the ear, and dragged his face to it. 

“Look.”

Courfeyrac looked with a miserable whine. 

“Read the second line.”

Courfeyrac recited: “Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night.”

“What’s the first word?”

“Not.”

“And what does that mean?”

“NOT!” Courfeyrac shouted. “What the fuck else is it supposed to mean?”

“Exactly that!” Cosette yelled back, letting him go. Courfeyrac grumbled and rubbed his ear. “Keats is telling you that these seven lines are things he /doesn’t/ want to be. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah, totally,” Courfeyrac told her. “NOT.”

“I’m never helping you again.” Cosette shoved him away.

Courfeyrac grabbed her arm. “No, please-- I need you. I just-- Enjolras is a bad influence!”

Cosette gave him a quizzical and distrusting glower. Enjolras might have been difficult, but he was generally a terrific influence -- so much so that it was actually frightening what he could inspire people to do.

“Please?” Courfeyrac begged, clinging to her. “I’m not going to survive this without you.”

Cosette sighed. 

“...alright,” she conceded, settling back down beside him. Courfeyrac grinned and kissed her on the cheek. She smiled. “Let’s try this again.”

She held the paper bearing ‘Bright Star’ by John Keats out in front of them. It wasn’t a terribly complicated poem -- she understood why Prouvaire had chosen it for his students’ introduction to poetry. It had plenty of easy-to-catch imagery; it was a perfect Petrarchan sonnet; it was short. But more than that -- it had a very clear message. 

Some professors only taught their subjects. They didn’t try to influence their students’ thinking beyond the facts of their own classrooms. But Jean Prouvaire was not like that. 

The first poem he’d given her had been ‘Dive for Dreams’ by ee cummings. 

In some ways, it was lucky that Courfeyrac had no aptitude for poetry. If he had -- if he could be led to its wisdom and taught to understand the kinds of lessons Prouvaire was going to give them -- he’d have marched into that poor, sweet man’s office and proposed on bended knee. 

“Read the first two lines,” she instructed, trying not to smirk.

“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art. Not in lone splendour hung aloft in the night.”

“So what is it that Keats wants to be?”

“A bright star.”

Cosette nodded. “What specifically about the bright star?”

Courfeyrac reread the lines. “Steadfast.”

“And?”

He pursed his lips.

“Not...” Cosette prompted.

“Not in lone splendour?”

“Exactly. He wants to be steadfast like a star, but /not/ in lone splendour.”

“Cosette?”

“Yes?”

“I have no fucking idea what any of that means.”

Cosette stared blankly at him for a moment. With the patience of a saint, she explained. “He wants to be steadfast -- so, constant in his affections, but he doesn’t want to be distant. All the lines that follow are about how he doesn’t want to be apart from his lover. He wants to touch her-- to feel her.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “Lover?”

Cosette nodded. 

“IS THIS POEM ABOUT SEX?” Courfeyrac demanded, pulling it out of her hands to reread it again. “DID JEHAN ASSIGN A SEX POEM?”

“Courfeyrac!”

Courfeyrac wailed. “Oh god, he’s so perfect. He’s so beautiful, and so perfect. I’m going to die. What if I write him a romantic sonnet? Do you think that would impress him? 

“If you wrote it?” Cosette asked disdainfully. Her tone said ‘no’ about as bluntly as the ninth line. There were no words to describe how much she regretted suggesting he take a class with Prouvaire -- and not only for Jehan’s sake, but Courfeyrac’s as well. 

Courfeyrac crushed the paper to his face. 

“Besides,” Cosette chastised. “You cannot flirt with one of your professors, Courfeyrac!” 

“I can!” Courfeyrac insisted. “I just can’t sleep with them--” He paused. “However much I may want to.” 

In his defence, he had never been good at obeying social mores about sex. If someone wanted to sleep with him, and he wanted to sleep with them -- they slept together. He’d never understood why it had to be any more complicated than that. He did understand that realistically the chances of a certain poetry professor wanting to ‘swoon to death’ with him were minimal. But that certainly didn’t mean he couldn’t at least find out -- and if the university had a problem with that, well. 

That’s what revolutions were for, right?

“This is why I need your help!” He told her, before his conscience -- which sounded uncomfortably like Enjolras -- started yelling at him about improper use of rebellions. “I don’t understand poetry!”

Cosette snorted in such a graceless way that Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile a little.

“It could be worse,” Courfeyrac added. “I could /hate/ him.”

“No one hates Prouvaire.”

“That’s what Eponine said about Enjolras’s art professor.”

Cosette’s head tilted slightly. “Enjolras is taking art?”

Courfeyrac flat-out grinned. “Intro class for his requirement. Well -- was taking it. He’s trying to drop it, because he /loathes/ this guy. He was livid when I got back from lunch with Joly.”

“...is it R?”

Courfeyrac blinked. “How did you know?”

“Wild guess,” Cosette replied sarcastically. She reached for her phone. Courfeyrac flopped back down on the blanket as Cosette found Enjolras in her contacts and hit send. He picked up after the first ring. 

“Enjolras?”

“What?”

“What a charming way to answer your phone.”

“Cosette, I’m a little busy--”

“I know, but listen. You can’t drop that class.”

“Wai-- what?” Enjolras made a noise very much like an irritated growl, and Cosette smiled. 

“Courfeyrac told me. (“I realised that.”) But honestly-- you can’t. R is a really great teacher. He knows his stuff, I promise.”

“You’re delusional,” Enjolras answered bluntly. 

Cosette pinned phone between her shoulder and her ear as Courfeyrac rolled over, putting his head in her lap. She kept talking as she instinctively ran her fingers through his hair. “I’m serious, Enjolras. You’re not going to find a class to replace this one now. You’d have to wait until semester, and I know how you feel about leaving things to chance.

Apparently Enjolras wasn’t going to deny that.

“Stick with it,” Cosette insisted. “R’s a really good guy. I know he seems... shabby (“A walking disaster.”) but once you get used to him--”

“I don’t want to get used to him.”

“Well, you’re a picky brat!”

Courfeyrac’s mouth made a shocked little ‘o’. 

“...did you just call me a brat?”

“I did.” She pressed on. “Consider it a useful lesson, Enjolras. You can’t just walk out on people because you don’t like them when you’re in politics.”

Clearly Enjolras thought he could, but he asked: “Why do you care?”

“Because it’ll be good for you,” Cosette answered. “You’re not going to find an easier class to take, and you might even learn something.”

Courfeyrac beamed. This was the Cosette they all adored -- their Wendy, playing mother-guardian to all her Lost Boys, even when they very stubbornly pretended they didn’t need her help. 

“What are you implying?”

“Go to class, Enjolras. And for God’s sake-- when Courf gets back, please sit down with him and explain why he’s not allowed to sleep with his professor.”

“What--” 

“Scare him if you have to.” Cosette hung up

“That was cruel,” Courfeyrac told her.

She ran her fingers through his hair again. “Enjolras is used to me hanging up on him.”

“I meant what you JUST DID TO ME.”

Cosette leaned over him and kissed his forehead. “We’re just looking out for you, Courf.”

“How is turning me over to the prince of sexual repression supposed to help?”

“Would we call him repressed?” Cosette mused absently. 

“/Yes/.”

“It is sort of funny how different you two are about that.”

“The only difference between us is that I let all of my horniness out--” Cosette smiled “--and Enjolras bottles it up. It makes him angry, and ridiculous.”

“As opposed to harmlessly and sanely hitting on a professor.”

“Exactly,” Courfeyrac replied. “In fact--” 

“Courf, no--”

Courfeyrac scrambled to his feet. “I think I’ll go ask my /professor/ for help.”

***

Cosette couldn’t have stopped Courfeyrac if she wanted to. He was a man on a mission, and his mission was love -- but just love, he repeatedly told himself. Not sex. He absolutely would not try to seduce his professor. That would just be...

“Hot,” he murmured, as he stopped, wide-eyed and mouth open, in front of Prouvaire’s door. 

He hadn’t known where he was going when he skipped into the large, pretty building that housed the university’s Literature and History departments. Enjolras could have told him, but after Cosette’s phone call, Courfeyrac suspected that even Enjolras would recognise the subtext if he asked how to get to the Literature department’s offices from the main door. (In reality, Enjolras was actually quite astute and obscenely observant when it came to most kinds of amorous shenanigans -- a fact that mystified and annoyed Courfeyrac to no end. He suspected that his infamously celibate friend only played dumb to get out of being his wingman -- which was just fucking rude.) 

Fortunately for Courfeyrac, Jean Prouvaire had made himself quite easy to find. 

The professors of the university’s Literature department inhabited an unimpressive hallway lined with fairly uniform, wooden doors. A few had put up a poster or two -- something motivational to encourage students -- but for the most part, they were just boring. (‘Just like literature,’ Courfeyrac thought to himself.) 

Only the last door at the end of the hall stood out from the rest. It was stuccoed from top to bottom with bits of poetry, dried flowers pressed in wax paper, and old, faded photographs. An open, possibly vintage locket hung from the nameplate that read J. Prouvaire. But one scrap of paper in particular had caused Courfeyrac’s jaw to drop to the floor.

It was a photograph. Or it looked like a photograph -- it was crumpled, like it had been torn down, ripped, and balled up several times before being tacked up again. But the picture still showed a slogan that Courfeyrac gleefully recognised, and it read: ‘I love you!!! Oh, say it with paving stones!!!’

He was so enthralled by the display that he stood outside of the office for a full five minutes just staring. 

“Are you looking for Dr. Prouvaire?”

Courfeyrac nearly swore. He definitely jumped. He’d been so preoccupied (that is to say, so busy salivating) that he hadn’t seen or heard the man next to him approach. But he nodded slowly as he tried to calm his racing heart. “I was just--” He took a deep breath. “I got distracted by...” Courfeyrac flapped his arms at the door. 

The man -- probably another professor, Courfeyrac realised -- smiled. He seemed charming, but in a casual, happy way -- not at all like Enjolras, whose charm was more terrifying than sweet. 

“He’ll be thrilled.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes lit up. 

But he kept his comments to himself. He was enthusiastic, and sometimes he was foolish -- but he wasn’t stupid. Gushing about a professor’s perfect ass to his friends was one thing; vomiting the full extent of his lust on the shoes of a complete stranger (who was probably Prouvaire’s colleague) was another -- and a very bad idea. 

There was no open space on the door itself, so Courfeyrac tentatively reached out and knocked on the jamb. 

“Come in.”

He pushed the door open. “Professor?”

Jean Prouvaire looked up from his desk. “Yes?” His eyes flicked from Courfeyrac’s red bowtie to the man standing just behind him.

Courfeyrac shuffled forward a step. “Do you have a minute? I was hoping we could discuss the Keats assignment.”

The man in the hall covered his mouth with his hand. Courfeyrac didn’t notice, but Jean Prouvaire did. He didn’t react -- he didn’t smile, or even blink. In a deadpan tone, he asked: “The one that’s due tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah, that one,” Courfeyrac answered with a nod.

The two professors exchanged jaded glances as a small, excited smile flashed across Courfeyrac’s face. 

Prouvaire pursed his lips.

“Text me when you’re done,” the professor behind Courfeyrac interrupted, with a small note of amusement. "We'll grab lunch."

Courfeyrac could have sworn he chuckled as he walked away. 

"Sit down, Courfeyrac."

Courfeyrac sat.

He didn't say anything. He just sat -- and stared a little helplessly at the divine creature across from him. 

Courfeyrac’s predicament honestly wasn’t his fault. He was a man built for infatuation, and Jean Prouvaire -- the impossibly handsome, sweet and evidently political Jean Prouvaire -- had a purple flower tucked into his hair. In a single breath, Courfeyrac fell head over heels in love with him all over again. 

Fortunately, Prouvaire seemed to see a lost social sciences student rather than a lovesick puppy. He raised an eyebrow. “The Keats assignment?”

Courfeyrac blinked quickly and dragged his eyes away from Jean Prouvaire’s face. 

“I kind of get it,” he lied, pulling out his notebook. The page with the poem he was supposed to be studying was a little wrinkled now -- but at least he hadn’t let it fly away. “I know it’s supposed to be a little sexy and romantic, but I’m just not really clear on the assignment, I guess? I just don’t understand what I’m supposed to do with it.”

Jean Prouvaire leaned back into his chair slowly.

Courfeyrac glanced up. 

“A little sexy,” Prouvaire repeated. 

“I like your chair,” Courfeyrac blurted out. He hadn’t noticed it before -- he’d been too enthralled to look up, really. But it was a lavender, floral print wingback, and almost as remarkable as the man sitting in it. 

Courfeyrac’s eyes drifted from the chair, to the ink pot on the desk that held a paper rose, to the tricolour rosettes tied to an odd-looking lamp. 

“Thank you. You were saying?”

But Courfeyrac was gone. His mouth dropped open for the second time as he twisted to take in every detail of the little office. It was tiny, but it was brimming with the most fascinating things. There were books from floor to ceiling -- books that he suspected might have been older than the printing press, and in languages he definitely didn’t understand. But the titles he could read hypnotised him. There were books on ethics, on morality and philosophy, and history, and politics. There was a flute on window sill, and under it a stack of books on music from around the world. And next to it -- a row of potted plants. Actually, there were flowers everywhere, Courfeyrac realised, as he looked up. Some paper, some real, and some dried and hanging from colourful ribbons pinned to the ceiling.

He suspected that was a fire hazard, but he very much doubted that Jean Prouvaire cared. 

This young, and beautiful professor didn’t seem to think much of traditionalism -- an irony, considering how stiff and upper the other people in his department were. He certainly didn’t dress like a teacher (or even an adult, for that matter -- pairing yellow pants with a loose, blue and green shirt), and apparently he didn’t decorate like the rest of them either. 

Courfeyrac licked his suddenly dry lips as his eyes lingered on a black and white photograph of a riot -- a very familiar man stood between policemen carrying riot shields and someone kneeling on the ground next to another person who seemed to be wounded.

He blinked. 

“Holy crap-- is that you?” Courfeyrac asked suddenly, leaning over the arm of the chair for a better look. If he’d trusted his knees not to give out, he’d have jumped up. 

Prouvaire glanced at the framed picture. 

“And that’s--” Courfeyrac grinned from ear to ear. “That’s him, isn’t it?” He asked, gesturing over his shoulder at the door. “That’s your lunch date kneeling behind you.”

His professor smiled timidly and looked down at his desk. It was such a sharp, almost unbelievable contrast from the defiant expression he wore in the photo -- but it was clearly the same person. “Yes,” he admitted quietly. “I promise it isn’t vanity-- Combeferre found it in the newspaper a week later and gave it to me as a birthday present.”

“No, that’s so cool!” Courfeyrac was practically glowing. “You’re so-- no, hang on.” He twisted to face Prouvaire again. “Did you say Combeferre? As in the history teacher?”

It was Jean Prouvaire’s turn to pause. “Yes?”

“He’s my roommate’s advisor,” Courfeyrac explained. “I didn’t realise he was...”

“So young?” Prouvaire filled in.

Courfeyrac bit his lip to stifle his lecherous smirk. “Actually, I was going to say ‘such a babe’, but... yeah, young works.” He looked at the picture again, and missed the surprise in Jean Prouvaire’s green eyes. “You’re political?”

“Immoderately.”

Courfeyrac side-eyed his teacher. “Was that a pun?”

Prouvaire only smiled. 

“My roommate and I run a political club,” Courfeyrac told him, straightening out again. “I mean, really we’re trying to start one. We only have six members. ...or five, if Maria mentions Sarkozy again-- I think Enjolras might actually kill her.”

“What are you called?”

Courfeyrac sighed. “We’d be neo-Jacobins if Enjolras had his way.” His tone implied that he was very unimpressed with Enjolras’s choice. And the disgruntled expression on his professor’s face suggested he agreed. “Not a fan of the revolution?”

“I admire it, but it wasn’t flawless. There were too many unacknowledged casualties.”

“The necessary sacrifice, according to my roommate.”

Prouvaire looked him in the eye as he asked: “Do you really believe that?”

Courfeyrac’s light-heartedness faltered slightly under that gaze. He answered truthfully. “No, I don’t.” 

An hour and a half later, Prouvaire’s phone interrupted them. They’d gotten so caught up in the conversation that neither of them had realised how much time had slipped by until Prouvaire checked his messages. 

[text] Combeferre: Lunch hours end in fifteen.

“Courfeyrac-- I’m sorry, I actually have to go.” He stood up as he hastily typed out a reply. 

[text] Prouvaire: Sorry, still with student. Finishing now.

Courfeyrac looked down at his watch. “Shit!” Prouvaire stared at him. If Courfeyrac had been capable of blushing, he would have. “Sorry. I am so sorry, I didn’t even realise--”

“It’s fine,” Prouvaire told him. “Really. I just want to get to Corinthe before the food becomes inedible.”

“More inedible than usual, you mean?” Courfeyrac asked, smirking. 

“Precisely that.”

“Why don’t you just go to that fancy teacher’s restaurant?”

Prouvaire kept his eyes down as he pushed his phone into his pocket. “We never discussed the assignment,” he pointed out.

Courfeyrac hopped out of the chair. “That’s okay--” 

His professor slid around the end of the desk and continued as he walked to the door. Courfeyrac grabbed his bag and followed on his heels.”It’s just a short essay to show that you’ve been paying attention in class,” Prouvaire explained. “Show what the poem means using the techniques we’ve discussed -- form, metre, the Shakespearean couplet at the end. We’ve covered everything, it’s just up to you to summarise it, really.”  
.  
Courfeyrac smiled and chewed on his lower lip. “Right, yeah...”

“So you’ll be alright?”

He nodded. “I’ll figure it out.”

Prouvaire closed and locked his office door. “I’ll see you in class tomorrow.” 

“Yeah! Definitely.” Courfeyrac watched him disappear around the corner with a forced cheerfulness. It was only after Prouvaire vanished that his shoulders slumped and fell back against the doorframe. 

He dragged his hand over his face with an exasperated sigh. “I am /so/ fucked,” he muttered. 

***

_And so in using phrases like ‘sweet unrest’, Keats uses the imagery of a cold and distant star to define his relationship with his lover. He aspires to be aloof, instead of close to his beloved because he knows that love is painful and being close to the person he loves will only hurt. (This suggests an unrequited, or possibly a forbidden relationship between Keats and his lover.)_

Jehan tapped his pen against his desk. 

The essay in front of him made absolutely no sense. It was fairly off-topic (which was impressive), and incorrect in every conceivable way. And as an unforgiving grader, he knew what score he should have given it. 

But he couldn’t. 

He flipped back to the title page, but hesitated before he could commit to a number. He dropped his pen and picked up his phone.

[text] Jehan: Student came to me for help. Got distracted; didn’t give it. Failed essay. Advice?  
[text] Combeferre: How bad is it?  
[text] Jehan: 6.  
[text] Combeferre: The Keats paper?  
[text] Jehan: I don’t understand either.  
[text] Combeferre: Avg of the others?  
[text] Jehan: 15.  
[text] Combeferre: Give him +3 for seeking help and drop the lowest grade at the end of the semester.  
[text] Jehan: Thanks. x

Jehan sighed in frustration as he scribbled a ‘9’ on the essay. It wasn’t a just grade -- but it wasn’t a just effort either, and he knew it. 

He added ‘see me’ in the top corner. 

And then he scratched it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras had to remind himself several times as he trudged across campus more than a week after his first and only art class that it wasn’t Cosette’s insistence that had convinced him to come back. It was a mix of things -- namely his advisor reminding him that finding a new class at that point would be next to impossible, that the dean would never sign off on his skipping the requirement no matter how impressive his grades were, and that waiting for an opening in a class next semester was just a little too risky. 

And then, of course, he’d said essentially the same thing that Cosette had -- that Enjolras should suck it up -- but he’d done it in a way that didn’t make Enjolras want to burn the Fine Arts building to the ground. General education requirements were a fucking crime (even though his advisor had disagreed adamantly) -- as far as Enjolras was concerned, torching the building in protest would have been completely justified. 

He walked into class five minutes before it started, and slipped into the same seat as before. 

Grantaire smiled at him. “Welcome back, Blue Eyes.”

Enjolras struggled not to purse his lips. 

The other students ignored them. Most of them were elbow-deep in projects they’d started in the last couple of classes, and seemed surprisingly eager to get back to them. There was a lot of hustle and bustle as they pulled down paint, paper, multi-coloured markers, and buckets of other supplies that Enjolras wasn’t actually familiar with. 

“Glad you decided to join us,” the artist added. 

Enjolras opened his mouth to comment -- but Grantaire had gone back to critiquing a painting for one of the other students. Instead of retorting, Enjolras huffed in annoyance.

A red-haired girl with tattoos running down both arms smirked as she sketched in a massive notebook.

It was then that Enjolras realised he had no idea what he should be doing. He’d finished the only assignment ‘R’ had ever given him about two minutes after it had been announced -- because that’s how long it had taken him to find a single sheet of solid black paper. 

Grantaire had given him a perfect score. 

And now, with no syllabus, no instructions, and a girl just to his right who seemed to be mocking him every time she smiled -- he was actually quite lost. He wasn’t shy -- not by any stretch of the imagination -- but he was proud, so asking Grantaire what to do was out of the question. 

He reached into his bag and pulled out a book. 

The redhead’s eyes flicked up, lingering on the cover -- but Enjolras didn’t notice. And he certainly didn’t give a second thought to her surprise as he put a leather bookmark bearing the words _‘L’histoire est un roman.’_ to the side. 

Half an hour into the class, Grantaire stopped in front of him. Enjolras didn’t look up until his teacher almost nonchalantly asked: “Whatcha working on?”

“You didn’t assign anything.”

Grantaire’s playful smirk suggested he begged to differ. “Technically I did, but you weren’t here for that.”

“And regardless,” Enjolras continued, letting his gaze drop back down to his book. “By your own authorisation, I’m not obligated to do it.”

“That is true,” Grantaire agreed slowly. He and the redhead exchanged glances. “Good training for politics, I guess. Sitting back and doing nothing.”

The other students didn’t bat an eye. Most of them hadn’t even heard Grantaire, and probably wouldn’t have cared if they had. 

Enjolras, however, had stopped breathing. A dull roar that he suspected was the sound of his suddenly dangerously high blood pressure echoed in his ears. 

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. 

Enjolras very slowly picked up his bookmark, slid it into place, and closed his book, setting it to the side. After taking a deep, intentionally calming breath through his nose, he looked up again, and met Grantaire’s curious gaze head on. 

“If we’re being critical, perhaps we could discuss the irony of a man who believes in nothing pretending to teach an art class?” Enjolras asked bluntly. “Because frankly the hypocrisy of a nihilist extolling creation is sickening.”

Grantaire’s eyes widened, but his smile never left his face. “But a politico not willing to try is... somehow admirable?”

“A radical,” Enjolras corrected immediately. He was seething. “Who doesn’t think your _bread and circus_ game is clever. Or, for that matter, your two-bit newspaper comments about politics. Shockingly -- and regardless of what you /choose/ to believe in -- there are people in this country who want to change the system, who /will/ change it, actually, even if it means tearing any kind of oppression out by the roots and burning it on the Place de la Sorbonne.”

The redhead had stopped sketching. She was listening to them both, but her eyes were fixed on Enjolras. 

“And that includes your cynicism,” Enjolras told him with a barely contained snarl.

“Cynicism is oppressive?”

“It’s a cancer. It destroys the mind in the same way that oppression disables the people, until the only course left is sudden and violent opposition. Nihilism is the antithesis of creation, and it has no place in this world or the future.”

Any normal teacher would have been upset about a student speaking out so disrespectfully. Grantaire let out a long, low whistle. Enjolras’s nostrils flared. He was still livid, and Grantaire’s persistent smile wasn’t helping his attitude. 

The artist -- Enjolras bitterly refused to recognise him as anything even remotely similar to a teacher -- said: “Well. I hate to be the one to shatter your idealism--” Enjolras lifted his chin in a mix of defiance and annoyance, “--but /true/ creation is the by-product of a meaningless world. What’s that quote?” He asked the redhead, snapping his fingers as he tried to recall. “Shit, I loved it when I read it...”

The girl smiled. Enjolras clenched his teeth so hard that his jaw was beginning to hurt. 

“The artist’s job,” Grantaire recited. “Is not to succumb to despair, but to find an antidote for the emptiness of existence.” He grinned. “Gertrude Stein. She was an American-- but she was in France when she said it, so it counts.”

“That’s from Midnight in Paris,” the redhead told him.

“Fuck me, really?” Grantaire scratched his eyebrow. His charcoal-covered fingers left a dark smudge by his temple that Enjolras could only see as disturbingly appropriate. “Well, whatever. The point stands.”

Enjolras hadn’t looked away. He’d been angry at the start, but now his eyes blazed with a dark, dangerous fury. 

As blithe as he was trying to be, Grantaire found the expression enthralling.

“It’s not despair you’re running from,” Enjolras answered. There was a quiet, but uncompromising finality to his tone. “What you feel is /fear/. You’re terrified of your utter lack of utility. You pretend that nothing has purpose so that you don’t stand out.” 

Enjolras picked up his book, grabbed his bag by the strap, and walked out.

Grantaire didn’t stop him.

The redhead clicked her tongue. “So do you think he just really hates Woody Allen movies?”

“I think he hates /me/,” Grantaire replied, biting down on his lower lip to suppress yet another smile. “But imagine the art that kid could create if he tried?” He glanced at her. “He might even make /me/ believe in something.”

***

Corinthe hummed with casual, post-class energy as Grantaire dragged a chair over to the booth where his friends were sitting. He spun it around, flopped down, and folded his arms across the back as he gave Jehan and Combeferre a wide, excited grin.

Jehan slowly looked up from his wilted disappointment of a salad.

“You’ll never guess what just happened to me.”

They didn’t doubt that -- Combeferre and Jehan exchanged concerned, apprehensive looks -- but they weren’t sure they actually wanted to know. There was always a risk of too much information when Grantaire was involved.

“A student walked out on me,” Grantaire told them triumphantly.

Combeferre’s eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“After,” Grantaire continued, lifting his hand to keep them from interrupting. Jehan couldn’t help but smile at his enthusiasm. “After basically calling me a useless dick.”

Jehan’s smile faltered. Combeferre stared.

Grantaire’s grin stretched across the full width of his face.

“What did you do?” Combeferre asked.

“What did /I/ do? Nothing! Well-- okay.” Grantaire leaned back slightly. “I was teasing him a little bit. And he flipped the fuck out -- it was great.”

“I meant about a student leaving.”

Grantaire snorted. “Nothing. I let him go.”

Jehan pushed his plate away. “You didn’t try to stop him?”

“Tell me that’s not really your dinner,” Grantaire replied, making a face. He was averse to rabbit food in any context -- but bad rabbit food was just criminal. Jehan pursed his lips. “No, I didn’t-- why would I? It was fuckin’ impressive.”

Combeferre’s unamused expression suggested he disagreed.

Grantaire laughed and shook his head. He adored his doctorate-wielding friends, but he didn’t expect them to understand. From their point of view, there was nothing more sanctified than education, which was a concept that had never -- and probably would never -- make sense to him.

Before either of them could argue the point, Jehan interrupted: “It’s better than having a student fail, I suppose.”

Grantaire poked at a brown piece of lettuce on Jehan’s plate. “No one fails your classes.”

Jehan struggled to hold back a frown. “Until now.”

Grantaire shot a sceptical glance at Combeferre who kept his eyes on his own food. “It’s the second week,” he replied dubiously. “How is that actually possible? How do you even have /grades/?”

Combeferre put down his fork and covered his face with his hand.

“You teach poetry,” Grantaire ploughed on -- perfectly aware of Combeferre’s exasperation. “Just give them an 11 and a pat on the head.” He mimed the action. “Good attempt, kid. Don’t try again.”

“Catch him after class and talk about it,” Combeferre murmured through his fingers.

“Well, if you wanna put effort into it,” Grantaire muttered, standing up. “I’m gonna get some...” He paused, realising that ‘food’ might not actually be available. It certainly wasn’t the reason anyone came to Corinthe. There were items on the menu from brunch until midnight -- but as his friends had demonstrated with their unappetising herbivore’s choice, most of it was better left untasted. What Corinthe had in her favour -- that places like Musain did not -- was alcohol.

And Grantaire loved alcohol.

Combeferre watched him idly, waiting for him to finish.

“...beer.” Grantaire sauntered away.

“I don’t know why I expected him to say anything different,” Combeferre mused. “And yet...”

Jehan wasn’t listening. He stared at the table with a meek sort of sadness.

It was only his second year teaching. He’d done some grading in graduate school -- but this was different. This was so much more personal. It seemed impossible that any student -- especially one who was clearly quite intelligent -- could be so unbearably inept at his favourite subject.

The only plausible explanation was that he had somehow failed in his instruction.

‘Somehow,’ he thought to himself as he recalled running bright red lines through the phrase _See me_. If that wasn’t failure--

“Hey,” Combeferre reached out and touched his hand gently. Jehan looked up. “Talk to him.”

The poet felt something constrict very painfully in his chest. His stomach rolled unpleasantly, and he grimaced.

“Catch him after class,” Combeferre continued. “If he wants to try-- let him. There are worse things than bad grades. Even if he doesn’t understand the subject, any class with you is still a good experience.”

Grantaire flopped back down with two bottles -- one open, and one still sealed. Both were for him. “I could have gone the fuckin’ flattery route,” he grunted, taking a sip. “If I’d known you were that easy.”

Jehan smiled softly.

Combeferre resisted a sigh. “You can’t live on beer, you know.”

Jehan’s eyes widened as he tugged sharply on Combeferre’s shirtsleeve. “Don’t give him ideas!”

***

Enjolras didn’t go straight home after leaving. He trudged out to the river with his hands stuffed in his pockets and a harsh, unhappy glower etched across his face. The September breeze was chilly -- chillier than he expected as it whipped across the water and made him shiver -- but he needed that.

He needed the city to distract him. He needed the sights and sounds of boats on the Seine, of loud tourists, of vehicles humming and honking to get that stupid, annoying, patronising smile out of his head. The walking helped. The fresh air was soothing. 

But it wasn’t enough. 

As uncomfortable as it was for him to admit, he knew he was being petulant. He knew that Cosette was right. Her and Combeferre’s warnings about tolerance haunted him. But knowing that wasn’t cathartic -- it was just fucking infuriating. (Enjolras was aware that he had a remarkable gift for objectivity. He was rational to a fault -- even with himself. It went ironically well with his inability to keep his temper in check.)

Of course, he preferred to think of it as ‘being passionate’. 

Courfeyrac reminded him that everyone else saw it as ‘kind of just a little bit fucking scary’. 

The sun dipped behind the spires of infamous buildings. Night slowly blanketed the city. Enjolras took a deep, deep breath and ran a hand through his tangled hair. He didn’t feel any calmer -- not really. He had overcome the desire to break something (or drown someone in paint), though -- which was probably more than enough, and as good as it was going to get. 

He dragged himself home. 

It was dark out by the time he pushed the door to the suite open. That wasn’t surprising. But it was dark in the apartment as well, and that was odd. 

“Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac didn’t answer. 

Enjolras checked his phone. There were no new messages. 

Over the years, they’d developed a habit of telling each other whenever they were going out. Courfeyrac more than Enjolras, but Enjolras did his best to let his best friend and suitemate know when the apartment was going to be free in the evening. (He was surprisingly generous in that regard.) Courfeyrac, on the other hand, kept Enjolras informed about everything. 

If Courf’s feet were cold, Enjolras knew about it. 

Even if it was four in the morning. 

It was actually bizarre, Enjolras realised, not to have heard from him in the last five or so hours. 

[text] Enjolras: I’m home. Where are you?

A very muffled ‘SexyBack’ erupted from Courfeyrac’s room. 

Enjolras rolled his eyes. 

But apart from the harrowing ringtone, the apartment was uncomfortably quiet. There was no music playing. 

(Loud music, of course, was a dead give-away that Courfeyrac was not only home, but also ‘occupied’. There were actually three key signs: music, a closed door, and -- about nine times out of ten -- a text message or voicemail in which Courfeyrac victoriously announced “I’M HAVING SEX :D.” But even on the rare occasion that Courfeyrac neglected the third, the first two never failed.) 

Enjolras dropped his bag in the living room before returning to Courfeyrac’s door. 

[text] Enjolras: You never go anywhere without your phone. Are you okay?

Again there was no answer. The ringtone played through to the end. 

Enjolras knocked lightly (“Courf?”) and opened the door. 

Courfeyrac had curled up in a tight, little ball in the middle of his bed. He had his back to Enjolras, but it was obvious that he wasn’t sleeping. 

Enjolras immediately moved across the room, reaching out to put a reassuring hand on Courfeyrac’s arm.

Courfeyrac turned his face into the mattress. 

People who didn’t know Enjolras personally had a habit of dismissing him as cold. And in fairness, he was cold -- he wasn’t friendly so much as captivating. He was handsome, and charming -- but a little bit harsh, too, which made him the perfect leader, but not everyone’s idea of the perfect companion. Of course, none of that mattered to Courfeyrac -- and in turn, Courfeyrac knew Enjolras better than anyone. He was fully aware that Enjolras was loving, underneath it all.

Sometimes cruel, yes -- but still loving.

Enjolras, likewise, knew Courfeyrac. 

He stretched out behind Courfeyrac. He slipped his arm around Courfeyrac’s waist, and held tight. 

Courfeyrac trembled. 

And then he let out a single distressed whine.

Enjolras pulled him closer. 

He didn’t ask what was wrong. Courfeyrac would tell him in his own time. In that moment, what had happened wasn’t even relevant -- the only that mattered to him was letting Courfeyrac know that he was there. 

Courfeyrac rolled over and buried his face in Enjolras’s chest. Hot tears streamed down his face, soaking the front of Enjolras’s shirt. Enjolras rubbed Courfeyrac’s back gently. 

It didn’t really take long for him to stop crying, but Courfeyrac eventually sniffed and mumbled: “Thank you.” He sounded miserable -- but in a gross, snotty kind of way that made Enjolras smile. Enjolras responded by hugging him. 

Courfeyrac made a noise halfway between a laugh and a grumble. 

He didn’t like crying in front of anyone. But if it he had to -- better Enjolras than anyone else. 

He stubbornly rubbed his face with one hand, trying to smudge away the feeling that he’d just sobbed openly all over his best friend. “I got my poetry paper back,” he muttered. 

Enjolras rested his arm gently on Courfeyrac’s waist. “And?”

“I failed.”

“And?” Enjolras repeated.

Courfeyrac snorted. He reached behind him, groping along his bed until he found his wrinkled -- soggy -- essay. “Just look,” He murmured, handing it over. 

Enjolras looked. “A nine isn’t that bad, Courf.”

“Not that.”

There was something in the top corner that Enjolras couldn’t read. It was too dark, and the ink had bled a little too much. “The corner? I can’t read it.”

Courfeyrac was quiet for a moment. “It would have said _See me._ But he crossed it out.”

Enjolras didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t quite understand. In his experience, a teacher not wanting -- or not needing, really -- to meet with a student was a good thing. 

Courfeyrac sniffed again, and explained. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

Enjolras refrained from letting his face expression his confusion. 

Courfeyrac let out a long sigh. “He doesn’t want to /see/ me. I went to his office to talk about this paper -- I was actually really asking him for help because I just... I don’t understand Cosette at all.” Enjolras’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “And I was just hoping he could-- you know, show me what to do or something. But we just talked.”

“What do you mean?”

“We talked. About everything. I told him about you, and our club, and he really likes political stuff -- you should see the books he reads. You’d like him.”

“I don’t like anyone who upsets my friends,” Enjolras replied bluntly.

Courfeyrac huffed and pressed his face against Enjolras’s shirt again. Realising how wet it was, he quietly mumbled “Sorry.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Enjolras stretched his legs out, and propped himself up on one elbow, but he still didn’t pull his arm back. “But tell me why this is a problem, because... I just don’t understand.”

Courfeyrac peeled back enough to rub his nose. “When I went to his office, we just-- I thought that--” He paused. “He doesn’t want to talk to me again. I fucked up that paper, and he knows it, but he doesn’t want to see me. If he did -- or even if he didn’t care, he wouldn’t have crossed it out.”

“Or he knows how brilliant you are and he doesn’t think you really need help.”

“I got a /nine/.”

“There are worse grades.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “How would you know? Have you ever gotten below a sixteen?”

Enjolras considered. 

“No. You haven’t.”

He really hadn’t. But he skipped right over that detail to ask: “Why does it matter, though?”

Courfeyrac blinked.

He pulled away from Enjolras and sat upright. Even in the shadows, Enjolras could see how wide Courfeyrac’s hazel eyes had gotten. 

“Because I love him,” Courfeyrac answered. There was so much sincerity and insistence in the way he said it that Enjolras almost felt guilty for not realising that from the start. “I’m in /love/ with him, Enjolras. I’m so in love with him that this actually hurts--” He brandished the paper. 

Enjolras drummed his fingers. It was a habit when he was thinking -- or more accurately, when he was faced with an argument that seemed... illogical to him, and he wasn’t sure how to answer. 

Courfeyrac knew that. And Courfeyrac felt Enjolras’s fingers on his side. He sighed and draped his arm over his face. 

“You hardly know him,” Enjolras said quietly. 

Courfeyrac groaned. “Enjolras.” He dropped his arm, sniffed, and met Enjolras’s gaze. “That doesn’t matter. I didn’t /choose/ him-- we don’t get to decide who we fall in love with! It just happens.”

“I know, Courf--”

“And maybe it won’t last, but it’s how I feel right now. And I can’t do anything about that.”

Enjolras didn’t look away, and he didn’t answer. 

Courfeyrac pouted. 

Enjolras licked his lip. “Maybe -- in that case -- this is for the best?”

Courfeyrac blinked. “What do you mean?”

“...he’s a professor. He’s /your/ professor.”

“Ennnnjolraaaas. That’s not important.” Courfeyrac flopped backwards. “That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Courf--”

Courfeyrac groaned again and uncurled. “What time is it?”

Enjolras checked his watch. “Half past nine.”

“God, really?” Courfeyrac blinked. “Wait, didn’t you just get back? Why were you out so late?”

“I went for a walk.”

Courfeyrac’s eyes narrowed. 

Enjolras huffed. “I needed to clear my head.”

“Why?”

Unlike Enjolras, Courfeyrac didn’t feel the need to wait for Enjolras to explain in his own time -- which was wise, because Enjolras never shared anything personal without excessive prompting. 

“/Why/?” He repeated. 

Enjolras shook his head and looked down. “I hate art class,” he explained with a sigh. “I hate that man.”

“Your teacher? Grantaire?”

Enjolras’s lip curled even at the mention of his name.

“What happened?” Courfeyrac had snagged a teddybear and wrapped his arms around it like it was story time for a six year old.

Enjolras pulled a face. He honestly didn’t want to relive the whole thing again. “I.. lost my temper,” he answered, conceding the point. “I yelled, and I walked out.”

Courfeyrac slowly reached out and took Enjolras’s hand. In a sweet and very loving tone, he said: “You need anger management.”

Enjolras laughed. “I know. My advisor thinks so, too.” He shifted and stretched out on his back.

Courfeyrac sprawled across his chest, using the teddybear as a pillow. “Or we could--”

“No.”

“I wasn’t--”

“Yes, you were.”

Courfeyrac grumbled. “I’m just saying... if you meet a hot boy any time soon.”

“I’ll get you his number.” Enjolras checked his watch again. “If we order in the next ten minutes, we can get pizza.”

Courfeyrac blinked.

Enjolras looked down his chest at him. 

“WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? GO, GO, GO.” He rolled off Enjolras in a rush, tossing his teddy bear gently back onto his bed. Enjolras grinned and sat up. Courfeyrac scrambled to the door and shouted over his shoulder. “HURRY UP! I’LL FIND SOMETHING SHITTY TO WATCH ON TV.”


	4. Chapter 4

For the first time, Joly noticed her before she noticed him -- and in the process, completely forgot he’d come to the café for a quick lunch.

He couldn’t help it. The girl he’d been flirting with-- was he allowed to call it that? Were they actually flirting? Was there a word for staring at someone across the full length of a room for weeks on end and forgetting that he had legs and could have gotten up at any point to go talk to her?

Courfeyrac might have called that ‘being Joly’. But Joly only sighed.

The girl -- that girl with the red lipstick that accentuated her mouth so perfectly -- drummed a pen against a book at a table on the far side of the room. She had dark, exceptionally thick and curly hair that she sometimes wore down, and sometimes up, and sometimes covered completely with a scarf. Joly had seen her enough times to know he liked it best down.

It was down today.

Joly sighed wistfully.

He didn’t know who she was. He didn’t know her name. He only knew what she looked like, and she looked -- as far as he could see from the distances at which they’d exchanged glances -- very, very pretty.

She had light brown skin. She had dark, mesmerising eyes. She had such beautiful angles in her face.

“You have excellent supraorbital processes,” he whispered to his textbook, even though his vision swam with images of her. He sighed.

He was beginning to develop a routine. See the pretty girl, salivate quietly over the pretty girl, and then do absolutely nothing to attempt to speak to the pretty girl. If Courfeyrac had been there, he’d have marched over and asked for her number. But while Joly was very tempted -- he wasn’t Courfeyrac. He smiled about as much as Courfeyrac, and he was quite happy -- but he wasn’t exceptionally brave.

Pretty girls required a certain kind of bravery.

He glanced up again with a hopeless sigh.

A young man had appeared at the girl’s table.

Joly sat upright.

For the last hour, he’d been hanging over his books and neglecting his food and bemoaning his academic choices a little more than usual, but suddenly -- with the appearance of this new person -- all of that ceased to exist.

The man kissed the girl on both cheeks and sat down.

Joly briefly wondered if heartache was lethal. It wasn’t, of course -- if it was, Courfeyrac would have died years ago. And in fairness, he couldn’t exactly indulge the tightness in his chest when he hadn’t made any effort to talk to the person he was pining over.

Eponine slid into the chair next to him.

“They’re going to notice if you keep staring,” she told him, stealing a french fry.

A faint pink blush crept into Joly’s cheeks as he quickly looked away.

“Now you just look like Maria.”

Joly couldn’t help but laugh at that. He probably did.

Eponine picked up another fry and glanced at the table that had captivated her friend. “Which one were you watching?”

“The girl,” he answered sheepishly.

He opened his mouth to explain, but Eponine winced. “Oh, they’re kissing.” Joly looked over sharply.

They weren’t kissing at all. They were talking -- animatedly, yes, because they clearly knew each other -- but they certainly weren’t kissing.

Eponine giggled. Joly groaned and covered his face with his hand.

Eponine pulled the rest of his lunch towards her with a teasing smile. “Who is she?”

Joly laughed and shook his head. Eponine eyed him with a puzzled expression.

“How are you?” He asked. “How are classes?”

Eponine relaxed slowly, but shrugged. “Boring? Tedious. I like one of my lit classes, and art, obviously. But...” She trailed off, and picked the onions off the leftover half of Joly’s sandwich.

“But?” He was genuinely curious.

She shrugged again. “I don’t think I like literature. I like reading, but studying it is... “

“Boring.”

Eponine smiled. “Yeah, kind of? I want to take more art classes. And drama-- R says I’d be good at it.”

Joly closed his book. “Why don’t you?”

“Who goes to university to take acting?” Eponine licked her lips and took a bite of the sandwich. The fries were already gone.

“Courfeyrac.”

“He’s studying like a million things,” she replied around a mouthful of food.

Joly smiled again. “But he’s getting a degree in political science _and_ theatre -- you should talk to h--” A loud laugh interrupted him. Joly and Eponine both looked up.

Red-lipstick girl had covered her mouth to stifle the sound, but it didn’t help. Her friend was smiling and laughing as well, but it was her voice that carried across the café to Joly’s table and made him grin. He briefly glancing at Eponine with a gleeful expression, and giggled quietly to himself as he watched.

Eponine smirked and licked her fingers.

On the far side, Red-lipstick girl reached for her purse. She still had her hand over her mouth as she got to her feet. Joly looked away quickly.

“What was I saying?”

Eponine had his drink in her hand. “That I should talk to Courfeyrac.”

Joly nodded. “Just don’t mention poetry, or anything related to love unless you have three hours to spare.”

Eponine paused mid-sip. Her head tilted to the side slightly.

“He’s in love.”

“Ah.”

Joly glanced over his shoulder again -- but the girl was gone. Her friend was still there, with his back to the wall, and his legs crossed. He was looking in Joly’s direction, and for a short moment, their eyes met.

Eponine stood up. “Seems to be a trend,” she said -- more to herself than to Joly, who had suddenly found the buttons on his own shirt to be worthy of an intense examination.

“You’re leaving?” Joly asked, looking up.

Eponine nodded in the direction of the other table. “You’ve got another appointment, doc.”

Joly twisted around so quickly that he very nearly gave himself whiplash. The friend of the pretty girl (oh, but how he hoped he was just a friend) had gotten out of his chair and was walking towards him. Eponine gave a small hum of amusement and disappeared -- with Joly’s drink still in hand -- into the crowd.

The man stopped in front of Joly. He was just as handsome as the girl was pretty, Joly realised -- dark-skinned, with a smile that felt comforting. And either he shaved his head, or he was balding -- but it seemed to suit him.

Joly had to remind himself that it was not the time to be admiring someone’s cranium.

He looked up with a slightly concerned expression.

But the man’s smile only widened in response. He looked down and said, with a unique kind of cheerfulness in his tone: “Hey.”

***

Eponine left the cup on a low, brick wall just outside the Fine Arts building.

“You’re both fucking stupid,” Grantaire told his friends as Eponine strolled into his classroom. Neither the redhead, nor her tall, muscular, and shockingly naked companion spared her a second glance as she picked her way over to a desk and hopped on to it.

The redhead was pursing her lips. “And you’re just an asshole,” she told Grantaire.

“That’s not relevant,” the art teacher muttered. Eponine smiled and swung her feet.

“You just don’t want us hanging out with people who give a shit,” the man said, folding his large arms over his chest.

Eponine’s head tilted slowly to the side.

It had absolutely nothing to do with their conversation.

Grantaire held up his hand in a gesture that betrayed both his frustration and his disbelief with the conversation. “First of all-- I don’t even care. Second--”

The man interrupted him. “Is she serious?” He was looking at Eponine.

Eponine did not divert her eyes.

Grantaire glanced over his shoulder. The redhead smirked and patted her friend on the leg.

“Eponine, Bahorel. Bahorel, Eponine,” Grantaire introduced. Eponine waved. “Bahorel’s modelling for my intermediate class.”

“Can I sit in?” Eponine asked. She sounded perfectly innocent.

Grantaire and the redhead both snorted. Bahorel straightened up with a smirk.

“No,” Grantaire replied. “You have class.”

“I’m skipping today.”

To no one’s surprise, that put an end to it.

“Lucky,” the redhead muttered, checking her watch. “My lunch break’s up in twenty minutes.” She frowned.

“You’re not staying to watch sex-addicted college students get fired up over Mr. Universe?” Grantaire asked drily.

“Even if I could...” The girl began wistfully. “I wouldn’t.”

“What are you implying?” Bahorel asked.

“I’m very bluntly saying that I see enough of your hairy ass every day.”

“My ass is not--” Bahorel twisted and craned his head. Grantaire covered his face with both hands and turned to Eponine.

“I’m just grateful they’re not fucking on the desks,” Grantaire told her.

Eponine smirked.

“Did you need something? You can stay if you want to-- it’s just figure drawing.”

She folded her hands in her lap. “I was actually wondering if I could stay at your place tonight.”

Grantaire looked back to where his friends were bickering like six year olds. “Bahorel,” he barked. “You’re staying at Feuilly’s.”

The redhead -- Feuilly -- looked indignant. “What did I just say!” she shouted. “Let the girl stay at my house. You dipshits can camp out in your disgusting apartment.”

Bahorel reached out while Feuilly’s back was to him and pinched her.

Feuilly turned and socked him in the face.

“FUCK!”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Fucking brats.”

Swearing aside, the three of them -- Grantaire, Feuilly, and Bahorel -- shared a very comfortable, good-natured kind of camaraderie that made Eponine feel somewhat jealous. They were so at ease with each other -- nothing like the slightly stiff friendships she had with some of the other university students.

“You’re welcome to stay with me,” Grantaire told her. “On my nice, comfortable couch--” He narrowed his eyes at Feuilly. “Or you can stay with her. She’s nice. Ish.”

“Go to hell.”

“She smells, though,” Bahorel added.

“You’re one to fucking talk,” Feuilly growled. “I’d rather Eponine stay with me than either of you.”

Eponine beamed. She’d met Feuilly a few times before, but she didn’t realise the redhead knew her name.

“Good thing I’ve got my own god damn place and don’t need you,” Grantaire retorted.

Bahorel shouted something at both of them.

“Well, that’s just rude.”

“I can stay with you,” Eponine told Grantaire.

Feuilly groaned and picked up a worn, canvas backpack. “Fucking injustice,” she muttered, digging out her keys and chucking them at Bahorel.

Grantaire actually looked smug.

Bahorel grinned like a slightly demonic child. “I’m gonna put my hairy ass on everything you own.”

Feuilly stopped at the door.

Bahorel chuckled.

“I have a welding kit,” Feuilly told him.

Bahorel seemed to physically shrink.

Eponine leaned over to Grantaire. “I don’t understand?” She whispered.

In the same tone, Grantaire replied: “I think she’s threatening to light him on fire.”

She was. She sauntered out of the classroom with a victorious smirk on her lips.

“I’ve got a late class, but I should be back by about 7,” Grantaire told Eponine. “We can order takeaway or you can make whatever you want, if you’re hungry. No need to wait for me.”

Eponine shrugged as students started filtering through the door. “I had lunch,” she answered. “I don’t mind.”

Grantaire smiled. The warmth in his expression was indescribable -- but there was concern, too. Luckily, he was better at hiding that. “Alright. I’ll see you then?”

Eponine nodded.

After she left (she’d have loved to stay and ‘sketch’ but she chose not to -- for the model’s sake), Bahorel -- who had sprawled out in a chair in the middle of the room -- asked Grantaire: “Is she a student?”

Grantaire adjusted a lamp. “Yup. Eponine Jondrette. My favourite advisee.”

Bahorel’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I thought you didn’t take advisees.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire smirked. “She’s the only one.”

“Why?”

The artist didn’t answer right away. Bahorel stared at him suspiciously. Grantaire sighed and explained as he stood up. “She’s... got a shitty family.”

Bahorel smirked. “You fuckin’ softie.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“ _Khafe sho._ ”

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “You know, contrary to popular belief, I don’t actually fucking speak Farsi.”

Bahorel seemed indifferent. “That’s not my problem.”


	5. Chapter 5

Summer in the city dropped off slowly. It was warm days and increasingly cold nights, and bare legs in the sunshine interrupted by sudden, often shocking downpours. It was picnics in parks, and girls using books as makeshift umbrellas as they sprinted indoors. And when the clouds cleared, it was the people of Paris sauntering back out again and sprawling out in the grass.

It was mostly people -- but Paris was always about the people.

Everything was about people, Combeferre mused as he strolled across campus with a portfolio under his arm. He recognised some of his students on the green -- a brilliant girl named Cosette, and a shy, often quiet brunette he’d only met this semester named Maria. He waved as he walked, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t have time.

He was on his way to a board meeting of sorts -- a very important meeting, as his nerves kept reminding him. His excitement only just outweighed the worry that he might (once again) not get the answer he was hoping to hear.

The study of life was so much more than just biology. History was more than dates and numbers. Philosophy was quite a bit more significant than the university’s two man (and Grecian-obsessed) philosophy department was leading its equally small collection of students to believe. Life was science, yes -- and psychology, and sociology, and history, and philosophy. It was biology, but at a uniquely profound level.

It was a fascinating collection of studies -- and he wanted to teach all of it at once.

He hurried up the steps to the main library, mentally rehearsing a last ditch effort to persuade his colleagues in the event that they said no. After four years of presenting the idea -- to teach a cross-listed class on humanity itself -- he couldn’t even fathom how they could possibly continue to turn him down. They’d used every excuse already.

As far as he knew -- his current syllabus and lesson plans combated every single one. He had prepared in every way he could imagine.

But his stomach still rolled as he raised his hand to knock on the meeting room's door.

It flipped even harder when the smiling librarian answered. There was no one else there -- not the usual panel of stiff-faced old men looking unsympathetically bored. It was only the kind-hearted Monsieur Mabeuf.

But -- unless Combeferre was projecting, which he very well might have been -- Mabeuf looked even happier than usual.

Combeferre reminded himself to breath. “Have I got the wrong room?”

Monsieur Mabeuf kept beaming as he shook his head and shuffled to the side, beckoning Combeferre in. “No, no! Not at all, dear boy. I’m afraid the committee’s down to me just now.”

Was that supposed to be reassuring? Combeferre stepped into the high-ceilinged room. It was certainly unnecessary -- the table could have easily seated sixteen, but they were using it for just two. Had something gone wrong?

“Now about your class-- oh, have a seat. Have a seat!” Mabeuf told him jovially. He hurried around the table to a seat in the middle, but stopped before he had a chance to pull out his chair. “While you’re on that side, have a look at that potted ivy. Isn’t it marvellous? A present from an old friend, and still going! We keep it trimmed, of course.”

“Of course,” Combeferre replied with a soft smile. 

Despite his own surprising impatience, it was impossible to be curt with Monsieur Mabeuf. The man was impossibly sweet -- and also a very close friend of Jehan’s. All of the many plants on Jehan’s windowsill were gifts from the slightly dotty old librarian. A large number of the more expensive books in Mabeuf’s treasured Rare Book Room were presents from Jehan.

Combeferre’s relationship with the man was significantly less involved. Mabeuf had never offered to adopt him, for example. But they had shared many a cup of tea while discussing books. Occasionally Mabeuf would slip back into murmurs about plants, and which fruits were in season, at which Combeferre could only nod and smile. He loved learning more than anything, and there wasn’t anything he wouldn’t willing sit and listen to someone who truly loved a subject discuss -- but megagametophytes, ovules, and endosperm could only fascinate him for so long.

“It’s lovely,” Combeferre added. Any other day he might have asked if it was the mildly toxic Hedera algeriensis -- which it was, of course, or it wouldn’t have been given a private room -- but not then. In that moment he was keen to avoid any questions that might have sent Mabeuf spiralling into a discussion that could go on for an hour.

He felt slightly selfish in doing so -- but he could make up for it another time.

“Yes, yes,” the librarian answered fondly. “Yes, quite.”

“About the committee’s decision?” Combeferre asked tentatively.

Mabeuf blinked. It took him a moment to jump from his love of plants back to the matter at hand. Combeferre felt as if he could see the gears slowly turning and the subjects shifting in the mans head, almost like an old jukebox machine. One the right topic settled down on his tongue, he gave an enthusiastic chirp. “Right! Well, as you know, we’ll need a few revisions.”

Combeferre’s throat tightened.

“But the book list!” The old man pulled his chair out, sat down, and grabbed a sheet of paper. “This book list!”

Combeferre tried to clear his throat and found he couldn’t.

“I’ve read the first one, you know. I’m very excited to be adding these to our collection!”

The pause that followed seem to last for months from Combeferre’s point of view. Mabeuf loved books; he might have just been adding them to the library because he liked them -- because Combeferre liked them, and he liked Combeferre. There was really no telling what was going on in the old man’s mind.

“You know, if I weren’t so busy, I’d come sit and watch you teach this next semester.”

Air rushed into Combeferre’s lungs so quickly that he started coughing. Mabeuf looked concerned, but Combeferre shook his head dismissively and turned to the side. He covered his mouth with his hand, but he was grinning even as he struggled to breathe.

It was just endorphins, he silently told himself. A sudden rush of endorphins -- but god, what a beautiful feeling.

When his throat finally cleared, he asked: “They said yes?”

Mabeuf seemed shocked by his doubt. “Of course! Nathan!” He sounded like a chiding father, and gestured at the portfolio he had in front of him. “This is very intelligent! You put so much thought and care into this, how could anyone refuse you?”

Combeferre’s smile didn’t falter, but he humbly dropped his gaze to the table. He suspected that Mabeuf wasn’t familiar with his earlier endeavours -- but that didn’t matter.

They had agreed.

A new wave of happiness surged through him, bursting out of his mouth in a quiet laugh. “And you said next semester?”

Mabeuf nodded and grabbed the book list again. “That’s why they left me to tell you, you see. We have work to do, you and I! I’ll have to order these books.”

***

The clouds drifted overhead, changing shapes as Cosette watched with a sleepy expression. Maria curled up next to her, lazily tracing circles on Cosette’s arm with her finger.

“Why do you think he was in such a rush?” Cosette asked after a moment.

Maria didn’t look up. “Who, Dr. Combeferre?”

“Mmm,” Cosette acknowledged. “He seemed almost agitated?”

Dr. Combeferre was one of her favourite professors. And while the university’s staff were encouraged not to play favourites -- Cosette had no such compunctions. She brought Dr. Prouvaire madeleines when he seemed blue, and found R that record he’d been wanting for months. They’d both said they couldn’t accept -- that it was against policy.

But one didn’t simply refuse Cosette Fauchelevent.

Maria lifted her hand, lightly kissing Cosette’s fingers. Cosette smiled and closed her eyes. She was spoiled -- she knew that. But as far as she was aware, she was a good person too. Surely that made a difference?

“Maybe he was late for a meeting?” Maria suggested.

“Does he really seem like the type to be late to anything?” Cosette countered. She rolled onto her stomach and propped herself up on her elbows. “I hope he’s alright.”

Maria rested her chin on Cosette’s shoulder. “You’re so caring.”

A faint blush crept into Cosette’s cheeks. She turned her head to the side so her nose brushed against Maria’s. “I’m concerned. He’s a very good teacher-- Papa says people should look out for one another.”

“Your Papa is a saint,” Maria told her. And in a whisper added: “You are an angel.”

Cosette bit her lip to stifle her grin.

Combeferre stepped out of the library feeling happier than he had in years. Mabeuf had held him back for a little less than an hour. He wanted to sort out some of the finer details of Combeferre’s syllabus -- but he’d given up when he realised Combeferre wasn’t listening.

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to -- any other day, he’d have been more attentive than the old librarian. But not right then. Not in that moment. In that moment he couldn’t feel anything other than pure elation. He’d been given permission to teach the one course that had driven him out of a master’s degree in engineering and into the arms of not one, but two doctorates in education.

It was his dream. He had accomplished his /dream/.

He ran a hand through his hair as he wandered back across the plaza. He was beaming -- he couldn’t help it. He’d noticed how sunny it was on his way over, but now he felt it. He felt the warmth and the happiness and the bliss of the weather, and the people, and the city, and /life/.

Cosette looked up just as he was about to pass by. “Dr. Combeferre!”

It took him a moment to realise someone had said his name. With fireworks going off inside his head, his senses were slightly confused, but he stopped and blinked until he caught sight of his students -- the ones he’d seen earlier -- waving at him.

“You look cheerful,” Cosette called out. It was an understatement, but she was glad -- she had been genuinely worried about him. Maria smiled up at him -- she was uniquely susceptible to other people’s happiness, and Dr. Combeferre’s excitement was practically tangible.

Combeferre inhaled deeply and nodded. He was. He most certainly was. “Hello-- yes, I--” He laughed. “Yes, I am. It’s a beautiful day!”

“Did you mean it’s sunny and hot?” Cosette asked.

Combeferre was grinning. “It is a bit warm for September, isn’t it? Cyclical weather patterns, I suppose. And a great day to do--” He noticed a text he’d assigned for one of his history classes in front of Maria. “...last week’s reading, apparently.” Maria blushed. Cosette kissed her cheek. “Oh, but speaking of--”

Both girls looked up.

Combeferre seemed to be finding it difficult to contain his enthusiasm. To Cosette, he said: “Do you remember the course I was telling you about last semester?”

Cosette considered it. “...the, uhmm. Oh, yes-- the interdisciplinary one?”

Combeferre nodded again. “Yes. Yes, well... I’m teaching it next semester, and I think you would both enjoy it. You should sign up for it.”

Maria looked slightly confused, but Cosette’s mouth dropped open. “You got it? Oh, professor! Congratulations!”

Combeferre had mentioned the class to her in passing last semester while they were discussing an assignment. Cosette had mentioned her interest in anthropology, and Combeferre, impressed with her affinity for learning, had suggested the class as something that might be available a year or two down the road -- just before she graduated.

She’d been excited.

But nowhere near as excited as she was now. She was happy for the class, of course, but more than that -- she was thrilled for /him/. She clapped a hand over her mouth politely, but her genuine delight was perfectly visible in her eyes.

Combeferre’s smile had never been wider. “Thank you,” he replied. “Although, it might not be open by the time you register. I think a few fourth year students will probably sign up...” His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes did widen slightly as he realised just how /vocal/ some of those students (and one in particular) would be.

But after a brief pause, he cleared his throat and lowered his voice. “Still, if it isn’t available-- submit an override. Both of you.”

Maria and Cosette exchanged surprised glances.

It wasn’t often that a professor specifically asked you to take his class.

Especially not a professor that they both adored.

“We will,” Maria murmured, mirroring Combeferre’s smile. “Definitely! Thank you.”

Combeferre made a dismissive sound and waved his hand. “You’re both very bright, very dedicated students,” he explained. Maria looked down at her book sheepishly. “And I’m excited,” Combeferre added with a laugh.

“You should be,” Cosette told him. “And I bet Dr. Prouvaire is, too.”

Combeferre opened his mouth to answer -- paused -- and immediately dug his hand into his pocket in search of his cellphone.

***

“So it’s not that we aren’t serious,” Courfeyrac explained with a cheeky smile. “We’re just getting our feet on the ground-- if you’d met Enjolras, you’d understand.”

Jehan’s mouth curved shyly into a smile. “I probably shouldn’t say, but I have heard of him.”

Courfeyrac flat-out grinned. “Well, who hasn’t?”

Around the same time that Dr. Combeferre had walked into the library, Courfeyrac had ducked into the Lit department. His intention had been to question his professor -- to present his smudged, tear-stained essay and find out why exactly Prouvaire had crossed it out so adamantly.

Enjolras had reminded him when he first laid out his plan that there was no evidence of anything adamant in the action, nor did his professor need a reason to change his mind about seeing a student -- especially not one that suggested forbidden romantic feelings -- but Courfeyrac was not one to be deterred.

It was a character flaw, sometimes. He had a habit of coming on too strong, and he knew it.

But his friends didn’t seem to mind, and maybe -- just maybe -- some slightly older, exceptionally well-educated, gorgeous, fae-like men wouldn’t either.

He had found Dr. Prouvaire in his office, which wasn’t unusual.

It was slightly strange to see a college professor sitting sideways in a wingback with his legs draped over one arm of the chair, reading a book that he was holding up, over his head. He was also wearing bright green socks and had a daisy tucked behind his ear -- but those were things that Courfeyrac only noticed later. It had almost felt criminal to interrupt...

But he had.

And an hour later, he’d never taken his essay out of his bag. He’d brought it up, of course. He’d knocked and stepped into Dr. Prouvaire’s office, and begun with: “About my essay,” but Prouvaire had interrupted with a blush and an embarrassed sound as he tucked a blond curl behind his ear.

It was Dr. Prouvaire who had apologised -- if he’d only paid attention to Courfeyrac and not been distracted the last time. It had been his failure as a professor, not anything he held Courfeyrac, as the student, accountable for.

He didn’t acknowledge that Courfeyrac’s essay had actually been genuinely terrible. He’d wanted to -- he’d even opened his mouth to make a suggestion, but then Courfeyrac had blurted out: “Sorry-- I am sorry. I’m shit at poetry, I know.”

Prouvaire couldn’t recall a student ever having said ‘I’m shit’ so candidly to a professor -- certainly not to him. It made him smile.

So he’d made a choice -- one that Grantaire would have teased him about, but Dr. Combeferre would have loved, if only because it demonstrated so clearly why Jehan was such an unbelievably good teacher. Not just a professor, but a teacher -- an educator -- and a guide.

He’d said to Courfeyrac: “Tell me about your interests.”

The entire hour had slid by in a blur.

“He’s not as cold as people think he is,” Courfeyrac added, referring to his roommate and best friend. “And he hates the title, but he’s a good leader. If we do get anywhere, it’ll be on his willpower.”

“He might help,” Jehan conceded, “but if history’s shown us anything, it’s that the power of the mob is far, far more effective than one person. But the power of a group... sometimes that makes a difference.”

Courfeyrac sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. History was not really his thing. In a political context? Sure. He knew a bit about classics, and the birth of modern politics -- but for the most part, he couldn’t tell the Iron Age from the Zhou Dynasty.

Dr. Prouvaire could.

Dr. Prouvaire would have gently informed him that those eras happened concomitantly.

But Jehan’s phone hummed before Courfeyrac could open his mouth.

The poetry professor reached for it, and Courfeyrac took a quick breath. His eyes wandered to the clock on the wall -- widened slightly as he realised how much time had passed /again/ -- and then slowly turned his attention back to Dr. Prouvaire.

Jehan glanced at the number, pursed his lips slightly in a confused expression, and answered.

“Hey-- can I call you back? I’m with a student.”

Courfeyrac smiled.

Prouvaire’s mouth dropped open. “They said yes?”

Courfeyrac blinked. His smile faltered slightly.

But then it was Jehan who was smiling -- grinning, really, from ear to ear. He covered his mouth with his free hand as he made giddy, ecstatic noises into his phone. Courfeyrac stared.

“Congratulations! I told you they would!” Jehan stood up and beamed at Courfeyrac as he replied: “Congratulations-- I knew it. I knew they couldn’t say no. Okay-- where are you?”

As Jehan listened to Combeferre’s reply, Courfeyrac shifted in his seat. Jehan’s little outburst -- his smile, his excitement, his happiness, and that one insensibly delighted look -- left him a little bit breathless.

“I’ll meet you there in fifteen minutes.” Jehan hung up.

Jehan looked across his desk at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac looked back with the most impassive expression he could force onto his face.

“I have to go, but--”

“Of course, sorr-- ”

“--what else do you like?” Jehan sat down.

Courfeyrac blinked several times. “What?”

“Current affairs, politics-- what else do you like?”

With thoughts of love rolling around in his head, Courfeyrac found it hard to come up with anything else. And in his defence -- those /were/ his primary interests. There was only one other thing he liked more.

After a moment, he cleared his throat and boldly said: “Sex.”

Jehan bounced out of his chair again.

Courfeyrac exhaled slowly.

“Take this,” Jehan told him, pulling a book down from a shelf by the window. He picked up his keys from his desk as he handed it to Courfeyrac. “Just read it.”

“You’re giving me extra homework?” Courfeyrac asked with a teasing whine.

Jehan paused to look Courfeyrac in the eye. “I gave you an extra three points on your paper because you came to ask for help.”

Courfeyrac’s mouth rounded into a little ‘o’. “So I got a /six/?”

“Courfeyrac, it was terrible.”

Courfeyrac held up the book. “So what is this, ‘How to Understand Poetry: A Guide for Idiots?”

Jehan smirked. “It’s Neruda. Take it home-- read it. And then we’ll talk about it.”

“...so I’ll have to se-- to come back. We’ll have to schedule another meeting?” Courfeyrac got to his feet.

His professor nodded. “Yes. We will.”

“Okay. Good.”

Jehan ushered him out of the office and locked the door behind them.

“I have one question,” Courfeyrac added as Jehan turned to leave.

“Yes?”

“What’s a Neruda?”


	6. Chapter 6

Eponine stared at Courfeyrac with a perplexed expression.

He wasn’t looking at her. He hadn’t even noticed her. And it wasn’t likely that he was going to any time soon.

They were surrounded by other students -- during the lunch rush, the tables at Musain were like that: packed as closely together as possible, and almost always full. There was a reason it was Courfeyrac’s favourite place -- apart from his own bed. He thrived on the noise and activity.

But not today. Today he was oblivious, and obliviousness from Courfeyrac was astonishingly out of character. In the year that Eponine had known him, she had never once seen him so calm and so quiet. She was floored by his strange, new behaviour.

Cosette wasn’t. She smiled coyly to herself.

Courfeyrac was reading, and Cosette knew why. She knew where he’d gotten the book that he couldn’t seem to put down. And even though it was poetry, she wasn’t in the least bit surprised that he found Neruda so enthralling.

“He’s obsessed,” Eponine murmured, clearly amazed.

Cosette laughed and laced her fingers through Maria’s under the table. “He usually is.”

Courfeyrac didn’t acknowledge them. He had his head down, and an old-looking locket in his right hand that he kept turning over as he continued to read as if he had no other purpose in life.

“Did he even eat lunch?” Joly asked with concern. Maria shook her head. Joly sighed: “I’ll get him a sandwich,” and stood up.

The man sitting next to him watched him go. He, like Courfeyrac, hadn’t said much of anything since Joly introduced him.

Cosette turned to him in Joly’s absence. Courfeyrac’s transformation didn’t captivate her -- but new company did. “You’re not an undergrad, are you?” she asked casually. She’d noticed when he first sat down that he seemed too old to be a regular student.

He shook his head. “Third year law.”

“Ohhh.” Cosette’s face lit up in recognition. “How many classes have you had with Dean ‘ Objective. Objective. Objective!’ Javert?”

The man smiled. Everyone -- undergrads and grad students alike -- knew that it was actually impossible to get through the university’s law programme without taking at least two courses with the law school’s belligerently rule-adherent dean. That issue was the exact reason one of his friends hadn’t graduated yet -- even though he’d been an enrolled student for the last eight years. His disdain of the school and its leadership was legendary as a result.

“I’ve got him for my final seminar next semester,” the man answered. His expression suggested that he was fully prepared to continue in the footsteps of his friend in becoming a fourth year student in lieu of completing his degree.

“I’m so sorry,” Cosette replied with a soft, sympathetic smile. She did her best never to think ill of anyone, and quite honestly she did believe that the dean was a good man at heart -- but he was infamously strict, and rumoured to be without mercy. Resting her head against Maria’s shoulder, she optimistically said: “Maybe he’ll have retired by the time you apply?”

Maria squeezed her hand. “He can’t be that bad.”

Joly’s friend snorted.

“I think he disagrees with you,” Eponine commented.

Courfeyrac interrupted them with an obscene noise and clapped his hand to his mouth. He still hadn’t looked up. Eponine rolled her eyes.

“What a charming first impression he’s making,” Cosette noted, even though she and Maria both thought he was being senselessly cute.

Having lost interest in Courfeyrac, Eponine turned her attention to the newcomer -- and to the sandwich that Joly put in front of her. The pre-med student slid a second one in Courfeyrac’s direction. “What’s your name, by the way?” Eponine asked as she checked for rogue onions . “I missed it earlier.”

Courfeyrac picked up his book, and slid back in his chair so he could pull his knees up to his chest -- all without taking his eyes off the page.

“Lesgle,” the man answered.

“Courfeyrac, you can put the book down long enough to eat,” Joly insisted, lingering next to him. Courfeyrac hissed.

“And not like the bird,” Lesgle added, off-hand.

“That’s unique,” Maria replied.

“Courfeyrac--”

Cosette peeled away from Maria to reach over and rest her hand gently on Courfeyrac’s knee. “Sweetheart, I think you should take a break.” Courfeyrac glowered at her, a facial expression he’d obviously picked up from Enjolras. But Cosette continued, “Neruda’s not going anywhere. And Dr. Prouvaire won’t know how quickly you read it -- you have time to eat.”

There was a quiet pause as everyone -- even Lesgle -- stopped to watch for Courfeyrac’s reaction.

He huffed in annoyance.

Cosette stared at him imploringly, and slowly, carefully peeled the book out of his fingers.

“Damnably,” Lesgle answered, once the sandwich drama was resolved. Joly smiled at his blatant but cheerful sarcasm. “My full name is Youssouf Pierre Lesgle de Meaux.”

Eponine whistled.

“That’s a mouthful,” Courfeyrac muttered, despite the huge chunk of sandwich he had bulging in his cheek. Cosette covered her face with her hand.

But Maria, unhindered by friends or food, said: “Oh? How interesting! Where are you from then?”

Joly made an awkward, embarrassed noise. Cosette closed her eyes and bit her lip. They both knew that Maria was very sweet. She had good, amicable intentions -- but she was slightly naive.

Lesgle pursed his lips. It wasn’t a sneer so much as a distinct indication that he was incredibly unimpressed. “ _Meaux_ ,” he replied tartly. “And you?”

Maria smiled nervously -- as she always did when she was lost and not quite sure what was going on. “Paris,” she answered brightly. Cosette compassionately took her hand again and gave it a gentle squeeze.

Lesgle looked to Joly, who met his eyes with an apologetic grimace as he slid into the vacant seat between the law student and Eponine. The whole table had gone awkwardly quiet -- an anomalous bubble of silence in a sea of happy chatter. Even Courfeyrac had stopped loudly chewing, in part because he was staring at Lesgle.

Happily, no one noticed.

Cosette squeezed Maria’s hand a second time and took a quick, short breath before trying to explain. “Unfortunately, that particular question has--”

But Courfeyrac suddenly and gleefully interrupted: “You brought a hot friend!” Maria rapidly turned a very bright red, and Eponine choked on her drink. “Why did no one tell me there was a new hottie at the table?!” Courfeyrac demanded.

Unfazed, Joly rubbed Eponine’s back as her shoulders shook with laughter. “Because you were having a torrid romantic moment with Neruda.”

“Yeah, but--”

“Besides,” Joly continued. “You’re the hot friend, remember? We’ve been over this.”

Courfeyrac waved his hand dismissively. “Well, yeah-- okay. I’m _the_  hot friend, but--” He paused. “No. Enjolras is the hot friend, but that doesn’t-- and Maria. Maria is also _the_ hot friend. They’re both our _the_  hot friends, but look at him!” He gestured at Lesgle, who seemed like he was struggling not to grin. “You’re gorgeous! Who are you? How’d you meet? Why haven’t we met before?”

“Courfeyrac!” Cosette exclaimed.

“THESE ARE IMPORTANT QUESTIONS, COSETTE.”

“I just met Lesgle last week,” Joly answered hastily. “I brought him to you as soon as I could.”

“I’d have come sooner if I’d known it was so urgent,” Lesgle commented.

Courfeyrac clawed at his face with both hands. “He’s hot _and_  funny-- _fuck_  me!”

“Maybe you should ask nicely,” Cosette reminded him.

“That wasn’t a demand!” Courfeyrac whined. “I mean--” He suddenly became very serious as he looked at Lesgle. “If you want to, then yes: please. But, hey. Actually--” Seriousness just as suddenly gave way to curiosity. “Are you into dudes at all? Because we have this friend.”

“I hope you’re not talking about Enjolras.” Joly asked, looking skeptical.

“His birthday is next week, and I think sex is a great present,” Courfeyrac pressed. “I was gonna offer myself again, but hot and witty is totally Enjolras’s type.”

Eponine mirrored Joly’s dubious expression in her tone. “Enjolras has a type?” Cosette and Maria seemed similarly confused.

“Well, I feel surprisingly welcome here,” said Lesgle. Joly grinned at him.

“He does,” Courfeyrac replied. “And he’s--”

“--right over there,” Eponine interrupted, pointing to the door of the café.

The others twisted in their seats, but it took them a moment to spot their friend’s rumpled golden curls amid the surge of students that had just come in.

“How do you do that, Eponine?” Maria asked, genuinely amazed. Eponine had a gift for spotting things and hearing gossip long before everyone else.

Eponine’s mouth twisted into a coy smile.

“HEY, ENJOLRAS,” Courfeyrac shouted. “ENJOLRAS!” He stood up and waved both arms to catch his roommate’s attention.

Navigating the labyrinth of students and tables wasn’t so difficult when you had the face of an avenging angel. More often than not, Enjolras’s peers had a habit of getting out of his way -- even when his expression was casual and charming, as it happened to be that afternoon. Courfeyrac theorised that the routine had something to do with his best friend’s eyes. At his most sociable, Enjolras’s terrifyingly blue gaze was bright and radiant. At his most livid, it was filled with an enthralling, but dangerous fire.

Neither was exceptionally sympathetic.

Courfeyrac joyfully announced: “I have found you a man!” as Enjolras dragged a chair up into the empty space between his excessively happy roommate and Cosette.

“I don’t want him,” Enjolras answered, sitting down.

“He appreciates that,” Lesgle noted.

Joly sighed and quickly added: “He’s engaged, Courfeyrac,” before the situation could get any more out of hand. “To a very lovely woman.”

The blank look on Courfeyrac’s face suggested that Joly’s explanation meant nothing to him. Eponine glanced from Lesgle to Joly, neither of whom noticed her discerning stare.

Lesgle and Enjolras, meanwhile, had reached out to shake hands across the table.

“Lesgle,” the law student said.

“Enjolras,” Enjolras replied. “Nice to meet you.”

“And you.”

“Are you political?”

“No,” Courfeyrac interrupted with a frown. “Go back. I want to hear more about the pretty lady.”

“Where’s your book, Courfeyrac?” Enjolras asked, sounding nonchalant.

Courfeyrac squawked and immediately shouted: “GIVE ME BACK NERUDA,” at Cosette. Satisfied with how much he’d eaten, she handed it back to him without a word. He quickly clutched it to his chest while cooing affectionately.

If Lesgle found Courfeyrac’s behaviour odd, he didn’t mention it. He did, however, answer Enjolras’s question. “Yes.” He nodded. “To my mother’s eternal frustration.”

“Good,” Enjolras replied, smiling.

“I dare you to tell her that.”

The undergrads laughed. But, in the same way that Courfeyrac lived off the personal lives of everyone around him, Enjolras fed on political discourse. Luckily (and somewhat sagaciously), Joly had forewarned his new friend that Enjolras had one focus, and took radicalism to an entirely new plane of existence.

“What’s your stratum?” Enjolras asked.

“Left,” Lesgle told him. “Preferably social democracy.”

“Preferably?”

The others stayed silent. They knew better than to interrupt when Enjolras was weighing a newcomer.

“Democracy has a habit of not being very democratic.”

“In what way?”

Lesgle smiled and chuckled quietly. “It has to serve the people. Not cater only to those who can afford it.”

Enjolras’s expression matched the law student’s. “So what d’you think of the Board of Directors’ plan to push the school into the private sector?”

Around them, the others’ faces darkened. Courfeyrac frowned. Cosette and Joly both looked down at the table. None of them were happy about the Board’s recent announcement.

Lesgle didn’t hesitate. “It’s appalling and criminal.”

“It’s entirely legal,” Enjolras countered.

“Laws are written by people in power.”

That seemed to be sufficient, because Enjolras had no comeback. There was a delighted glimmer in his eyes.

Lesgle was still on his guard. “Did I pass?” He asked, with a hint of sarcasm.

“Flying colours,” Enjolras answered.

Courfeyrac snorted. And with the inquisition finally at an end, he added: “It’s a stupid decision. No one wants it to happen anyway.”

“Except the Board of Directors,” Cosette pointed out.

“And several department heads,” Enjolras told them.

Assuming he’d earned the right to add his voice to the discussion, Lesgle said: “The law school’s divided over it. The older students see the current traditions as a sort of rite of passage for the new kids.” He winked at Maria. “But there’s a lot of concern that the shift will mean immediate change.”

Enjolras pursed his lips. “What do the professors think?”

“Jehan doesn’t like it,” Courfeyrac whispered.

“It’s mixed feelings,” Lesgle admitted. “Some think it’s necessary, but everyone’s wary. D’Avaray hinted that it’ll mean amendments to the school’s constitution, but they’re not letting any of the law professors get involved.”

“That’s bizarre,” Maria noted.

“And worrying,” Lesgle added.

Enjolras somberly stated: “It’s unjust.”

No one disagreed with him.

They didn’t all have the same views when it came to politics. Joly, Courfeyrac, and Enjolras were belligerent radicals. Cosette, though she sympathised with their ideals, encouraged non-violent protest at all costs. Maria struggled the most -- yearning to identify with the passion her friends shared, but still finding it difficult to abandon the principles she’d built for herself from the ashes of her family’s conservativism.

Eponine alone had very little to say about their pleas for justice and equality, which was both strange and unfortunate, given that she was the only one among them who didn’t come from wealth and the upper tiers of society. She’d made it very plain that she didn’t enjoy talking about herself, or her family -- so they simply didn’t.

But despite their differences of opinion, every single one of them felt -- to varying degrees of anger -- that the university’s suggestion to move from the public and penniless (and therefore free and democratic) sector into the capitalist world of private education was a terrible, horrifying iniquity.

“Lamarque won’t let it happen,” Enjolras said confidently.

Courfeyrac laughed out loud -- and then explained in an aside to Lesgle: “Enjolras is exceptionally fond of our beloved president. He idolises him.”

“I admire people who give a shit,” Enjolras retorted. But Lesgle smiled -- he understood the sentiment. In the eyes of many, Lamarque was a great and noble man.

“That’s why you hate your art teacher so much, right?”

Joly covered his face with both hands and murmured: “Oh, no.”

Courfeyrac was being cheeky, but Enjolras’s expression instantly soured. His eyes narrowed and darkened, and his mouth pressed into a thin, annoyed grimace.

“Courfeyrac!” Cosette whispered indignantly.

“Oops,” Courfeyrac mumbled, grinning. He didn’t sound the least bit apologetic. He was one of the only people in their circle of friends who still found Enjolras’s constant fury over his art class funny -- in part because he was the only one who thought Enjolras was cute when he was being stupid. “But seriously, what do you think his opinion is on the university going private?”

“I highly doubt that he has one,” Enjolras snarled.

“He doesn’t,” Eponine answered bluntly. “Because he doesn’t care.”

His apathy was precisely the problem. Enjolras’s hand curled into a fist.

Lesgle glanced at Joly, who quietly tried to elaborate without setting Enjolras off even further. “Enjolras is taking art for his final elective-- it’s a curriculum requirement, so technically it’s mandatory. He just doesn’t get along with the teacher.”

“That’s an understatement,” Courfeyrac cheerfully pointed out.

“He viscerally loathes his teacher,” Joly amended.

“He’s _not_ a teacher,” Enjolras insisted.

Eponine pushed her chair back and stepped away from the table. “He’s better than you think he is,” she told them as she walked away to get a drink.

Joly continued his commentary. “Enjolras’s art teacher is Eponine’s adviser.”

“He _is_  a decent guy.” Cosette interjected. (“No, he isn’t.”) She frowned. “He and Enjolras just don’t see eye to eye on anything.”

“He’s a bit of a nihilist,” added Joly. “And Enjolras is...”

“Not,” Lesgle finished.

“Exactly.”

“Well, you don’t have to like everyone,” Lesgle said sympathetically.

“Except Enjolras isn’t very good at keeping his attitude to himself,” Cosette pointed out. Courfeyrac giggled.

“He’s an antagonistic shitbag!”

“Enjolras--”

“He’s pathetic!” Enjolras countered, ignoring Cosette. “He’s a worthless, wretch of a man--”

“Enjolras!” Cosette covered her mouth with a horrified expression.

“Who contaminates the system of education every day that he fucking pretends to be a teacher. He doesn’t believe in action. He doesn’t believe in anything! He openly encourages idleness, and _apathy_. He’s a fucking waste of the school’s resources, and he’s _not_  an educator! He’s demoralising. He’s a miserable, sad sack of asinine self-loathing.”

Someone standing directly behind Enjolras chuckled.

Enjolras’s stomach tightened. He was sickeningly familiar with that laugh.

As he turned around, he understood Cosette’s horror. Grantaire and Combeferre stood side by side, trays in hand, no more than three feet from his chair. Not once in the last four years had Enjolras ever seen his advisor look so bitterly disappointed. An embarrassed red tinge crept into his cheeks.

Grantaire seemed completely unbothered. “If I had a euro for every time someone didn’t like me,” he commented, smiling.

“You would have one euro,” Combeferre finished quietly.

 


	7. Chapter 7

“It could have fallen, I guess,” Jehan mumbled forlornly, fiddling with the ruffled cuff of his purple shirt. Purple was his sad colour. Blue was a soft sort of melancholy, but purple was for days when he was openly, achingly sad. “But it’s been there for over a year,” he continued. “You’d think I’d have noticed if it was slipping off?”

Combeferre offered him a sympathetic expression as he sank into an armchair near his friend. The seats in the Humanities lounge were treacherously comfortable — easy to get into, and next to impossible to get out of again. And unlike the chairs in his and Jehan’s office — they weren’t loaded up with books and students’ assignments.

“Someone might have bumped into it. I’ll ask Adelaide tomorrow if any of the cleaning staff picked it up.”

Jehan nodded, but he hunkered down in his chair. Despite being quite small — short, thin, and beautifully delicate — he seemed to physically shrink even more into the folds of his shirt. He looked miserable, but misery on Jehan, Combeferre had noticed, was uniquely endearing.  

He was naturally timid. When he wasn’t talking politics or poetry his tone was soft and almost shy — but give him the space or opportunity to discuss either of his favourite subjects, and he became the very image of courage. Combeferre admired that. He adored that Jehan was simultaneously gentle and fiercely passionate. It was the ideal kind of antithetical demeanor that drew Combeferre to a person in the first place.

Apathy mixed with a good heart. Cold chastity contrasted with savage fervour. Humility and inexhaustible indignation.

Jehan folded his arms over his chest and pulled his feet up. “Why wouldn’t they have put it back, though?”He asked. “It’s not a piece of paper that could have been dragged down the hall. It’s a locket.”

“We’ll do everything we can to find it,” Combeferre reassured him, sipping the tea that his sad, sweet colleague had turned down.

A quiet knock at the doorway interrupted them; Enjolras had stopped at the threshold to the lounge.

Combeferre looked up from his mug, and as he did — as he saw Enjolras — the sympathy slipped away from his face. He acknowledged his advisee with a nod. Jehan hardly glanced at him until Combeferre mentioned his name, at which point his chin lifted from a sea of purple ruffles.

“Enjolras,” Combeferre greeted. “Come in.”

Enjolras gladly stepped forward. He hadn’t wanted to intrude, but he wasn’t a patient person. “If you’ve got a minute, I’d like to explain what happened this afternoon.”

Combeferre was impassive. He looked away from his student to his suddenly attentive friend and asked, “Have you met Enjolras?” Jehan shook his head and sat upright. Without budging from his chair, Combeferre introduced them. “Enjolras, this is Dr. Jean Prouvaire.”

Enjolras’s eyes lit up with recognition. He’d seen more pictures of Dr. Prouvaire than he was entirely comfortable with, but they hadn’t done the poetry professor justice. Now that they were face to face, Enjolras understood why Courfeyrac found Prouvaire so appealing. He held out his hand.

“Jehan, this is my _best student_ , Enjolras.”

Enjolras immediately stiffened. Combeferre’s tone as he said ‘best student’ was unmistakably disappointed.

Unperturbed, Jehan smiled and shook hands gently. “Hello. I’ve heard quite a bit about you.”

A very faint red tinge blossomed across Enjolras’s cheeks for the second time that day as he slowly withdrew his hand. “I can say the same, actually,” he replied. Though — as demonstrated by his embarrassment — he doubted their information came from the same source. “My roommate is in one of your classes,” he explained.

“Courfeyrac,” Jehan confirmed. Enjolras blinked.

“Yes.”

But Combeferre didn’t give Enjolras time to dwell on how Prouvaire knew — he stood up and said: “We can talk in my office,” and led the way out. Enjolras, reminded of his reason for being there in the first place, said a brief goodbye to Dr. Prouvaire and quickly followed.

Enjolras had known Combeferre for far too long to be surprised by the lack of free space in his office, and he was too preoccupied with his own issue to realise that the amount of stuff — the books, the CDs, the papers — on his advisor’s desk seemed to have tripled since the last time he’d stopped by. Combeferre grabbed his gym bag from one of the chairs in front of his desk and moved it under the coat rack by the door. “Have a seat.”

Enjolras didn’t. He faced Combeferre while standing, and said: “About this afternoon. I realise I might have come across as rude, but—”

“Might have?” Combeferre interrupted, sounding incredulous. “You’ve never been delusionally self-important before. Don’t start now.”

“Okay, fine. So what if I was?” Enjolras countered. His blush was gone, replaced by a stormy glower. “Every word I said was true.”

“Even if that were the case,” Combeferre replied, “And it’s not—” Enjolras’s eyes narrowed. “—that isn’t the point.”

“Enlighten me, then,” Enjolras snapped.

“You’re being petulant.”

Enjolras was bristling. It wasn’t really Combeferre’s doing — his blood was still boiling from seeing Grantaire. And although Combeferre seemed calm, underneath his cool expression, he was frustrated as well.

“This is becoming a habit with you,” Combeferre told him. “You’re very clever, and your heart is in the right place, but this attitude is insensible.” As disappointed as he’d been with Enjolras at first, there was very little judgement in Combeferre’s voice. He sounded and looked concerned as he tried to rationally show his stubborn favourite the error of his ways.

“You know that I think there’s a time and a place for anger,” Combeferre continued. “I’m not against it, but what’s your logic in aggressively hating one person? I get that you’re very different. I don’t agree with his opinions either, but—”

“Do you know him?” Enjolras asked suddenly. “You’ve spoken to him—”

“He’s a very close friend—”

“—so you know he’s _degenerate_.”

Combeferre stopped speaking. He exhaled slowly.

Enjolras was not a model student. He was brilliant, and he was quarrelsome. Some professors sympathised with him — a lot more didn’t. By his second year, he’d been kicked out of more classes than he’d taken, which was only a fraction of the reason he’d been in almost all of Combeferre’s.

Combeferre was not a model teacher. He was better than that. He’d never have suggested it, or eventhought it, but the simple reality was that he was impossibly good at his chosen profession — far superior to even the ideal.

He was patient, and he was kind.

It spoke volumes about Enjolras that he was able to put even Combeferre’s composure to the test.

“Can you even deny it?” Enjolras demanded, burning with faith in his convictions.

Combeferre met his furious expression head-on, and didn’t look away. “Yes, I can,” he answered softly. “I can refute everything you’ve said about him today.”

Only Enjolras’s respect for Combeferre kept him from scoffing.

But his ire started to collapse as Combeferre stared back at him with stony seriousness. “I’m not saying that because I know _him_ ,” Combeferre continued. “I’m saying that because I know _you_ , A—”

“He’s not a good person!” Enjolras said very suddenly, over-enunciating in his frustration and cutting Combeferre off before he could address Enjolras by his first name. He hated being called anything but Enjolras. Combeferre, Courfeyrac, and Eponine were the only people who even knew his first name — though how Eponine found out was beyond him. She didn’t use it, and she didn’t mock him for it, so as far as he was concerned, it didn’t matter.

Combeferre acknowledged his misstep with a heartfelt apology.

But the diversion wasn’t tangential enough to pull him away from the remark he was determined to make. “You’re wrong,” he told Enjolras. He wasn’t being malicious — just blunt. “You are wrong about Grantaire, and you’re abusing good principles in defence of your hatred.”

Enjolras’s lip had curled as Combeferre spoke, but he was beginning to look a little pale.

“Frankly, I think this is a very unfortunate waste of your potential.”

They stared at each other in silence as Enjolras processed Combeferre’s words.

He had no comeback. He didn’t want to acknowledge that Combeferre might be right — but the nagging discomfort in his chest hinted that his professor was inevitably spot-on.

Enjolras grimaced.

And shortly after, he conceded. Without looking away — he was rash, but he wasn’t a coward — he quietly said: “I’m sorry.”

Combeferre’s expression didn’t change. “Thank you, but I’m not the one you should apologise to.”

Enjolras audibly groaned.

***

They didn’t intentionally walk hand-in-hand everywhere they went. It just sort of happened. They weren’t reaching for each other or making kissy faces (like Courfeyrac every other time he had a new datefriend), they were just walking with their fingers laced together.

Sometimes Cosette would glance at Maria, and Maria -- who spent an unhealthy amount of time eyeing Cosette with nervous adoration -- would squeeze Cosette’s hand gently. Cosette would beam and swing their hands back and forth, and that was enough.

That was a simple, but accurate expression of what they felt.

They were side-by-side when Eponine caught up to them after they slipped out of the café. She walked next to Maria, as she was always did when it was just the three of them.

“He didn’t finish his food,” Cosette said almost sulkily. But somehow she still turned a quick, happy smile on Eponine.

Maria mirrored Cosette’s expression, adding that slight look of surprise she had about everything -- even the world turning. “Hey Eponine.”

Eponine wasn’t quite so enthusiastic. “Are you talking about Courfeyrac?” She asked, continuing the conversation she’d interrupted.

“Yes,” Cosette and Maria both chimed.

“He’s in love,” Eponine said with a nonchalant shrug, stuffing her hands into her pockets. “It’s what he does. Give it another week and he’ll get bored and find someone else.”

“That’s what Enjolras said,” Maria noted. Eponine rolled her eyes.

“I almost wish Lesgles was interested in him,” Cosette commented. Maria gave her a bewildered look. “At least then Courfeyrac would be over this, you know? Jehan’s very sweet, and I don’t think he’d even be upset if Courfeyrac did something...”

“Courfeyrac-esque,” Eponine supplied.

“Exactly. Courfeyrac-esque.”

Of the three upperclassmen they’d befriended, Maria knew Courfeyrac the best. He’d been her orientation advisor, and one of the very first people she’d met last year -- and it hadn’t taken him very long to fall in love with her, too, which was a little awkward and complicated to deal with, but it’d sorted itself out in the end.

Her falling head over heels for Cosette had certainly helped.

That was one of the reasons Cosette had been so fond of Maria’s friends. They were all quite affectionate -- even the snarky one.

But despite her and Courfeyrac’s friendship, she could be a little obtuse about his antics. His over-excitement didn’t really register with Maria the same way it did with other people. Strangers thought he could be a bit too much sometimes, a little too zealous. Maria hardly noticed. To her, he was just having fun.

“Like what?” She asked, puzzled by what Cosette and Eponine were worried Courfeyrac might do.

Eponine smirked. “Five euro says he sends Prouvaire a Kiss-O-Gram, and delivers it himself.”

“I’m actually more worried he might propose or something,” Cosette murmured.

“Before or after he propositions him?”

“Possibly at the same time.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Eponine commented.

It certainly wouldn’t.

But that was Courfeyrac. He was marvellously lacking in inhibitions.

“I just wish he hadn’t fixated quite so strongly on a professor, you know?” Cosette said quietly. She was clinging to Maria’s hand in a way that she didn’t generally do. There was a hint of anxiety in her demeanor.

“He’ll get over it.”

Maria slipped her arm around Cosette’s shoulders reassuringly. “He’s just playing around,” she said, smiling. “You know how he is.”

Cosette beamed at her gratefully.

Eponine made a retching noise to drag them out of their gooey-eyed moment.  Maria turned bright pink behind her freckles and laughed awkwardly. Cosette shot Eponine a coquettish smile.

“Do you think R will be very upset?” Cosette asked, taking a step away from Maria so she could almost playfully swing their hands back and forth again.

Eponine shook her head. She took longer strides -- stepping out ahead of her friends slightly as they strolled aimlessly across campus in the direction of the dormitory where Cosette and Maria lived. Her hands were still in her pockets -- she was parading nonchalance -- but her eyes flicked, cat-like, from one distant spot to the next.

“No,” she answered. “He’s not even gonna remember it tomorrow, unless he wants to laugh about it.”

“That was so unfortunate,” Maria murmured.

“It was a bit much, even for Enjolras.”

“It was fucking rude,” Eponine replied acidly. Maria and Cosette both stared at her, eyes wide. “He doesn’t even know Grantaire. He’s just being a judgemental jackass.”

Eponine turned to face them so she was walking backwards. “So he hates nihilism. He hates people who are apathetic, that’s not an excuse to be a _dick_ about it.”

Maria looked flustered. She didn’t disagree that Enjolras was out of line, but conflict was generally not her strong suit, and two doses of it in one day was taking its toll. Cosette’s expression showed her sympathy, but as always, she was merciful.

No matter what, she found good where she could.

“He’s not a bad person, Eponine,” she reminded her friend.

Eponine openly scoffed. “No, he’s just a jerk.” Maria shifted uncomfortably. But Eponine didn’t give Cosette a chance to reply -- to find an apology for Enjolras’s shitty attitude, as far as she was concerned. She made a dismissive sound and turned away from her fellow second years. “See you tomorrow.”

Cosette determinedly called after her. “Wait-- Eponine! Eponine, are you going home?”

Eponine didn’t look back.

After a moment of Cosette making frustrated noises, Maria almost inaudibly mumbled: “Can we go back to our room?”

Cosette was the sound and energy to Maria’s quiet and calm. Maria could have happily holed up -- and frequently did -- in their room for weeks on end if Cosette didn’t drag her out for things like group lunches. Cosette loved being around people. She preferred Maria’s company to everyone else’s -- but she was an extroverted little lark of a person.

“Of course, chérie.”

And with every step nearer to home, Maria seemed to brighten.

She fit right in with their cheery, strangely spacious dorm room. As was the case in Dr. Prouvaire’s office, there were plants along the windowsill. They had boxes of potted flowers given by both the librarian, who was dotingly fond of Maria, and by Cosette’s father, M. Fauchelevent, who at one point, as far as Cosette knew, had been some kind of groundskeeper.

The whole room was quaintly decorated, which was Cosette’s doing -- lacy curtains with ribbons in every window and charming art in the white, open spaces on the wall. Maria had very few possessions, and very little to contribute, but it wasn’t reflected in the overall sweetness of the room they shared.

They technically -- for example -- had lofted bed. But the top bunk was missing its mattress. Instead, it served as an additional shelf for Maria’s trunk, and Cosette’s suitcases, with a few stacks of books which had no other place to go.

The missing mattress had migrated to the bottom bunk, where it was coupled with its twin and covered in a brightly-patterned duvet and a dozen pillows.

It was very much their room. Not hers and hers -- theirs.

Maria dropped her keys on her desk once they were inside and flopped down in her desk chair with a slightly exhausted sigh. Cosette smiled for the thousandth time that day at the sound. She hung her keys on a little hook by the door before smoothing out her skirts and prancing over.

“How are you feeling?” She asked sympathetically.

Maria’s corresponding smile was softer than the last few had been. “It’s been a loud day, hasn’t it?”

Cosette delicately brushed her fingers over Maria’s cheek. “My poor, sweet darling,” she murmured, though she was slightly teasing. “I’m sorry.”

Maria laughed and Cosette perched on her lap, loosely draping her arms over Maria’s shoulders.

“Can I make it better?”

“How?” Maria asked, looking up into Cosette’s eyes with the sweetest, most unintentionally endearing expression.

Cosette bit her lip to stifle a grin. It wasn’t very successful, but she tried, and her father had always told her that the effort was just as important as the result.

Maria’s adorable expression didn’t fade in the slightest. Cosette couldn’t help herself -- she leaned in and very lightly pressed her lips to Maria’s.

Apart from closing her eyes, Maria stayed very still. It always took her a moment to settle -- to relax into Cosette’s touch with a soft, nervous happiness. She loved being there, there was no doubting it. Her heart always beat a little faster -- her face felt hot. She was inundated by a sudden, overwhelming sense of personal embarrassment at not being just like Cosette, just as perfect, just as lovely, and confident, and sweet.

But Cosette never cared about that moment of shame. She felt it. She stayed gentle. And Maria loved her for it.

She truly, heart-achingly loved Cosette.

And perhaps that made it all the more awkward, but she’d resigned herself to the reality that there was nothing she could do to stem the immensity of her feelings. Cosette didn’t seem to mind. If anything, Cosette seemed to like her quite a bit too (and she most certainly did), and that was reassuring.

Maria’s hand jumped slightly as she moved it to Cosette’s waist.

Cosette adoringly responded by brushing her nose against her beloved’s playfully. Maria looked down very suddenly, her cheeks flushing scarlet as she did -- but there was no stopping her very toothy grin.

She didn’t see it, but Cosette _beamed_ at her.

When Maria looked up again, her eyes briefly connected with Cosette’s. Briefly -- just as quickly, her gaze dropped to Cosette’s mouth. There was a definite pause as she gathered her courage -- swallowing back the butterflies.

She tentatively returned the kiss.

Cosette all but purred.

***

Enjolras had his hand in his bag, fishing for his keys when he got Joly’s text message.

[text] Joly: I don’t know if that’s you rustling around out there, but you really don’t want to go in your apartment right now.

He stopped and glanced down the hall to Joly’s room.

[text] Enjolras: Why not?  
[text] Joly: Neruda’s a good pull, apparently.  
[text] Joly: My door’s open.

Enjolras rubbed his face with his free hand.

But he backtracked -- he shot a quick text to Courfeyrac.

[text] Enjolras: Call me when you’re done.

And retreated to Joly’s door. It was open. Joly was at his desk and waved over his shoulder as Enjolras dropped his bag on the floor.

“Can I take a nap in your bed?”

Joly hardly looked up. His textbooks were stacked around him, and drowning under a sea of notecards. “Yeah, sure thing. Are you alright?” He kept scribbling, but he was clearly paying more attention to Enjolras -- even couple of words he would stop and scratch out a mistake.

Enjolras kicked off his shoes and fell face down into Joly’s bed. “Fine,” he through a pillow.

“You don’t sound fine.”

There was a moment’s pause where Joly wondered if Enjolras had passed out -- but he hadn’t. He lifted his head just enough to turn it to the side. His face was still half-submerged, but he answered: “Is fine medically quantifiable now?”

“It is. You’ll find it on a scale between ‘Okay’ and ‘Alright’. There’s some overlap-- the data’s still being sorted.”

It was hardly audible, but Enjolras gave a quiet snort of laughter.

Joly didn’t press him for more information. He actually assumed that was the end of the conversation, but Enjolras -- eyes wide open and staring at the opposite wall with its retro medical-adverts-turned-decorative-affiches -- sullenly asked him a question.

“Do you think I’m rude?”

Joly looked up.

He wasn’t facing Enjolras. His desk was positioned in front of the one window in his small single. But he couldn’t bring himself to look back at the man in his bed until he’d really digested what Enjolras had said.

“Am I actually supposed to answer that?”

Enjolras rolled his eyes.

Joly twisted in his seat to look at him. “Is this about this afternoon?”

Enjolras didn’t reply, so Joly chose his words carefully.

“I think you’re opinionated. You have strong morals, and you don’t always know what to do with people who don’t.”

“Is that bad?”

“Not usually. It can just be confusing for some people.” Joly rubbed his wrists as he explained. “And not for your friends.” He smiled. “We like you. ...do you think you are?”

Enjolras curled up slightly and closed his eyes. He yawned as he said: “It hadn’t occurred to me.”

It took less than a minute for him to fall asleep. (Joly wasn’t surprised; some days Enjolras was only running on dangerously high doses of caffeine and the occasional cigarette.) But at his desk, Joly silently wondered what had changed.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“Ça va, _Bossuet_?” Bahorel clapped a massive hand down on Lesgle’s shoulder as he stopped at the law student’s table, and deliberately over-enunciated the nickname he'd given his friend just to be annoying..

Lesgle smiled, but shot Bahorel a sarcastic glance. “You’re never going to get tired of that, are you?”

“I will when you change your name, because then it won’t be accurate anymore.”

“Very funny.” Lesgle pushed his work away and looked up at his friend. “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be bursting into flames?”

Bahorel mimed scratching his arm. “Almost. I can feel the hives already.”

If there was one place on campus that Bahorel didn’t go, it was the law school. It didn’t matter that he was a law student -- that he was technically enrolled, and was supposed to attend classes. The law school was the church to his vocal heretic, and he happily shunned it as much as he possibly could. He’d never really been one for caring about the rules, or doing what he was supposed to do.

He flashed a book at Lesgle, who tilted his head to read the title. “Post-Imperialist Diplomacy?”

“For Feuilly,” Bahorel commented. “She said I had to get the book, or she’d tattoo my asscheeks in my sleep.”

Bahorel also had zero inhibitions about loudly saying ‘asscheeks’ in the middle of the law school’s library.

Lesgle’s mouth fell open slightly. Not for Bahorel’s vulgarity -- that was old, familiar news. His expression was concern for his friend’s backside -- but also confusion, mixed with the very obvious recognition that he was probably better off not knowing.

“I used her favourite towel.”

Silence.

“I was sweaty,” Bahorel elaborated. “Face, back, crotch. You know.”

Lesgle’s face immediately scrunched up with disgust as he winced. Oh, how his trust in certain friends so often betrayed him. “I know there’s a reason I’m engaged, and you’re not.”

“‘Cause you’re a sucker!” Bahorel smacked him in the back of the head with the book, grinning. Lesgle lifted his hand to shove Bahorel right back but only managed to smash his knuckles into the underside of the desk. While he winced again -- this time in pain -- Bahorel continued. “Nah, it’s because Chetta’s great, and I have yet to find someone I feel happy living with who doesn’t glue my ballsack to my hand.”

Lesgle stared at him in stunned (slightly agonised) silence.

Bahorel called him Bossuet because once upon a time there had been a very famous, talented orator from Meaux by that name. Lesgle was similarly gifted with words -- but even he had absolutely nothing to say to that.

So Bahorel looked at the book he was holding again. “I told her this is gonna be bullshit.”

“She probably knows that.” He wasn’t sure when Feuilly had dropped out of school -- sometime in secondary, he assumed. But he knew without a doubt that she was smarter than him and Bahorel combined.

Which was saying something -- because he’d heard Bahorel shut the dean of the law school down more than once.

Bahorel sighed. If he had a dollar for every time he and Feuilly had gotten in a cataclysmic fight about her going back to school... “If you find anything better, message me? Since you’re here anyway.”

Lesgle nodded. He doubted he would -- he and Bahorel had combed through too many of the shelves and stacks to not know how disgustingly classist the law school’s collection was. (To be fair, the gigantic chandelier in the middle of the library’s main seating area should have been a tell.) But there was always the hope that one day, things might suddenly change.

Bahorel frequently suggested that they might speed up the process with a little fire.

“How is Chetta, by the way? Feels like forever since I law saw her.”

“She’s...”

Bahorel quirked an eyebrow. His smile seemed to immediately shift into a smirk.

“The usual. Terrorising the new interns at the hospital.”

“So, flirting.”

“Yes.”

“She find any she likes?”

Lesgle rubbed the back of his neck. “One? Sort of. She’s acting weird about it.”

“...more weird than engaged Muslim nurse temporarily seeks tiny, preferably red-haired male pre-med undergrad for occasional fornication?”

“Is that weird? And he’s actually not a redhead. Brown hair.”

Bahorel scoffed loudly. “Chetta, come _on_! Standards!” Lesgle chuckled.

“I’ll let her know you think she’s slipping.”

“I’ll tell her myself. Any chance I can bum supper off you or her Thursday?”

“We’ll be at my mum’s place,” (Bahorel did a brief but victorious air punch -- Lesgle’s mother’s cooking could kill a man, but at least he’d die full and happy,) “but yeah, she wouldn’t mind. What’s Thursday?”

“Art class. Some sketching art class thing our friend told her to go to for shits and giggles? I don’t know, but she won’t be home and I feel like trash eating her food when she’s not there.”

“So you feel like trash pretty much all the time.”

“Yeah, basically.”

There was sympathy in Lesgle’s expression as he replied: “I’d help you out, but Chetta doesn’t get paid til Friday.”

Bahorel sighed dramatically. It was typical Bahorel -- but at the same time, Lesgle was suddenly reminded of the undergrads he’d had lunch with the day before. “What are you doing this weekend?”

“If I wake up? Catching a ferry to Norway.”

Lesgle knew better than to question how Bahorel was going to get on said ferry without paying for it. When you wandered as much as Bahorel did, you learned things that lesser men couldn’t handle. “...and if you don’t?”

Bahorel shrugged. “Nothing. Why? You have plans?”

“This student political club is having a meeting on Saturday to talk about the sector shift.”

It took all of a second for Bahorel’s expression to go from charismatically casual to irritated -- which was a little frightening, because even at his most opinionated, Bahorel didn’t really do anger. He was perpetually feisty, but rarely bitter. To offset the difference in character, he let loose a string of swear words in his native Farsi.

“Do you feel better?” Lesgle asked with no lack of mockery when he was done.

Bahorel said something that -- to Lesgle’s amateur ear (everyone very slowly picked up some small skill in the language when they spent even a minute amount of time with Bahorel) -- sounded like, ‘I will gut you with a pineapple.’ “I’m sure that’ll be fun,” he commented.

“I will see you and your mum and your pretty-much-your-wife-already on Thursday.”

Lesgle pretended to glance at his laptop, but Bahorel knew him well enough to understand that he was silently cooing over Musichetta.

“And then... what the hell, I’ll be there on Saturday.”

***

Enjolras put a mug of hot cocoa on the edge of Courfeyrac’s desk before gently shaking Courfeyrac awake. Courfeyrac groaned angrily -- as he did every Monday morning -- but Enjolras only stopped when Courfeyrac sulkily rolled over and sat up. Anything less than that, Enjolras knew, and he’d fall right back asleep again and not wake up for hours. (Literal hours -- Courfeyrac’s longest recorded ‘nap’ was fifteen hours, forty-seven minutes.)

Courfeyrac gave him the sulkiest frown, but Enjolras nodded in the direction of the desk. As usual, Courfeyrac’s face immediately lit up.

Always placate sleeping dragons with chocolate. Always. It was a well-established rule for a reason.

Enjolras ruffled Courfeyrac’s already-messy hair affectionately before backing out of the room, leaving him to enthusiastically slurp down his drink.

He was packing his bag when Courfeyrac stumbled out of his room ten minutes later.

“Wait, where are you going?”

Enjolras checked his pocket for his keys. “I have to go talk to a professor.”

Courfeyrac flopped down in a chair. He had class in an hour, and he was still in pyjamas. Enjolras’s first class on Mondays wasn’t until noon, but he was fully dressed and on his way out the door. It wasn’t in the least bit surprising or remarkable. The only reason Courfeyrac asked was out of curiosity -- he always wanted to know what Enjolras was doing.

“About what?”

Enjolras didn’t answer -- but he didn’t have to. Courfeyrac could tell from the sudden tension in his shoulders, and the disgruntled expression on his face that it had to do with his art class.

He made a sympathetic noise. “Apology time?” Enjolras had explained everything after Courfeyrac had let him back in the room Saturday evening, starting with the conversation he’d had with his advisor, all the way up to a tired, quiet acknowledgement that sometimes he was too harsh.

Courfeyrac had immediately dismissed the whole concept. Dr. Combeferre might think Enjolras’s attitude needed a little adjusting, but Courfeyrac loved Enjolras unconditionally. Enjolras could be sharp sometimes, a little cold and hard to deal with -- but he was a good person. A great one, from Courfeyrac’s point of view, and no silly history teacher’s annoyance could convince him differently.

(Although, he did agree that an apology under the circumstances was not uncalled for, and had summarily given his blessing.)

Enjolras nodded.

“Good luck,” Courfeyrac told him, offering a soft smile. “You can do it.”

“But do I want to?” Enjolras asked with a small smirk.

Courfeyrac chuckled. “You know you do.”

And it was true. He genuinely did.

Enjolras sighed and picked up his bag. “Want to get lunch later?”

Courfeyrac bobbed his head up and down dramatically and grinned. “Text me.”

Enjolras did a little half-wave with his phone in affirmation as he walked out the door.

He was committed to apologising. And honestly, he did genuinely want to do it. He wasn’t the kind of person to make dishonest statements just because someone else encouraged it, or because he was told it was the right thing to do. He was painfully sincere.

It was part of the reason his apologies were so rare.

But that didn’t hinder the flood of silent self-encouragement in his head as he marched across campus in the rain. The selfish, slightly bratty part of him thought that -- while he might have been unnecessarily harsh -- R was still an irritating, obnoxious person. Where was his apology? Where was his acknowledgement of how rude and questionable his attitude was? Why was it all on Enjolras’s shoulders? But the good man that Dr. Combeferre and Courfeyrac both recognised in him surfaced and reminded his inner brat that he was being stupid.

He was being childish, just like Dr. Combeferre had said. Grantaire was obnoxious -- he’d never deny that -- but that couldn’t be an excuse for Enjolras’s terrible behaviour. Not when it was only Grantaire that seemed to constantly, unfailingly shove him bitterly over the edge.

Hiding his irritation with one man behind his morals was...

...well, pathetic, frankly.

He lifted his chin slightly as he pulled open the door to the art building.

He found Grantaire in his usual classroom -- in the most unusual predicament he’d ever seen outside of a heist movie.

It almost looked like the art professor was trying to navigate a laser field protecting a priceless relic. Miles and miles of string had been wrapped around the huge still-life in the middle of the room and all the stools, and pinned to the walls, and threaded through the handles on cabinets. The relic wasn’t a relic -- it was a neat little line of cigarettes sitting on a table.

There was a tin of violently orange paint balanced precariously over top of them.

Given the way Grantaire was slowly -- and shockingly skilfully -- inching his way through the labyrinth, it seemed like a single misstep would trigger the paint can, dropping an entire bucket irredeemably on the prize.

Grantaire didn’t look back, but he heard someone come in. “Finally! Jesus, Eponine--” He paused to exhale slowly. Working through the maze wasn’t that hard -- it was having to hold his gut in to keep it from accidentally tripping anything that was getting to him. “Grab some scissors,” he whined.

Enjolras stepped over a thick, green ribbon wrapped around two desks. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

Grantaire’s head snapped in Enjolras’s direction so quickly that he overbalanced. Enjolras winced at his sudden yelp, but Grantaire -- with grace that Enjolras could never have predicted, or even imagined -- caught himself by catching his foot on the edge of the utility sink.

The one string he was touching miraculously didn’t seem to have any effect on the paintbucket.

“Fucking _Christ_ ,” Grantaire muttered. His voice was shaking. “That’s just-- ...great.” He exhaled again -- carefully, for fear of the fishing line just under him -- and rubbed his face with one hand. “I’m a little busy, Blue Eyes. Any chance you could come back later?”

‘Unless you’d like to _help_ ,’ Grantaire thought silently to himself.

Enjolras stayed very still. He didn’t scare easily, but part of him was afraid to move -- just in case.

“There’s a blue thread by your right elbow,” Enjolras commented.

Grantaire’s eyes flicked to the right. His elbow was millimeters away from yet another piece of string.

He closed his eyes and swore loudly.

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill her,” he snarled. “I will find her and set her fucking precious books on fire.”

“Who, Eponine?” Enjolras skipped right over asking how his art professor knew one of his friends -- he was infinitely more curious about why (and how) she might have done something so devious and fascinating.

“No,” Grantaire answered. He very slowly moved his foot away from the utility sink, bringing it under him so that he briefly resembled a flamingo, before putting it down between what looked like two separate strands of copper wire. “Feuilly. I’m going to murder Feuilly.”

Enjolras didn’t know who Feuilly was -- but he was impressed.

“Is smoking really that important to you?” Enjolras asked. He was seesawing between interest in what Grantaire was doing, and his usual disdain.

Grantaire kept working as he bluntly replied, “Don’t fucking start with me, kid.” Enjolras blinked. “There are eighteen cigarettes on that table. Eighteen. That is two shy of a full pack and the price is going up to six fucking euro a pack in three days, so do not even fucking start with me.”

Ironically, “...sorry,” was all Enjolras could say.

Grantaire whined. “That _asshole_.”

“Why did she do it?”

“Fuck if I know!”

He did know. And he really shouldn’t have said such rude things about Feuilly’s love of coffee. But really, this was too fucking much.

Enjolras didn’t know what else to say.

After a full minute of silence, Grantaire glanced at him. “Are you seriously just going to stand there?”

A rosy flush coloured Enjolras’s cheeks . “I don’t know how I can help.”

“Buy me a new pack when I fucking faceplant,” Grantaire muttered. “Grab a pair of scissors and cut the purple yarn just in front of you. You can pull on it, it’s not connected to anything.”

Enjolras put his bag down. “How do you know?” He asked as he looked around the room. He didn’t know where to find scissors, but he assumed they’d be in sight at least -- it was an art room.

“Behind you,” Grantaire sighed.

Enjolras turned around. The entire wall was fitted with cubby holes for various kinds of art supplies. He snatched up a pair of scissors and marched over to the string that Grantaire told him to cut.

“I came to apologise you know,” Enjolras told him. He cut through the purple -- and then the blue bit just to his left that went limp.

Grantaire’s hand was inches from his prize. “That’s nice,” he replied.

Enjolras frowned. But he kept snipping, and pulling threads away, wrapping them into a ball as he moved closer. “I’m--”

“I honestly don’t care.”  Grantaire took a deep, steadying breath -- and stretched.

His fingers scraped at the table, trying to scoot the row of cigarettes closer so he could grab them all at once. Enjolras paused to watch. Bit by bit, Grantaire wrapped his hand around the lot.

Grantaire pulled his hand back and shoved all eighteen cigarettes in his shirt pocket.

Satisfied with his success, he shouted, “TAKE THAT, MOTHERFUCKER,” at the ceiling.

Enjolras snorted.

But once he’d rescued his ‘priceless relic’ Grantaire didn’t seem to care much about being delicate. He shoved his hand between a web of multicoloured, multi-textured threads to get to the paint bucket -- pushing it up to free it from the snare, and then holding it with one hand while the rest of his body caught up so he could take it down.

“Impressive,” Enjolras commented, as Grantaire put the still-full bucket of paint down where the cigarettes had been.

“Thank you,” Grantaire replied. “Keep cutting. I want to get out of this fucking nightmare without clothes-lining myself.”

“You seemed to get in there without much trouble.” But Enjolras set to work again, clipping string after string to clear a path.

“Are you joking? I nearly broke my face on a desk. _That_ you can apologise for.”

Enjolras cut away the last red thread separating him from Grantaire and pursed his lips sourly. “I already did, actually.”

“How generous,” Grantaire said with a deeply sarcastic smile.

“All the same,” Enjolras continued. “I am so--”

Grantaire cut him off. “I don’t care. I honestly, hand-to-God do not care, kid. You know what I do give a shit about?”

Enjolras lifted one eyebrow, but didn’t vocally ask.

Grantaire pulled a single cigarette out of his shirt pocket, and a zippo lighter from his jeans. The satisfied noise he made as he lit it, dragging back smoke, was slightly obscene.

But frankly, Enjolras heard worse from Courfeyrac on a daily basis.

Enjolras tried again. “Nevertheless--”

“Seriously, stop” Grantaire slid past him, strutting out of the string-labyrinth. “I don’t _care_ , Blue Eyes. Even if I did -- which I fucking don’t -- apologies are heroically pointless.”

“And why is that?” Enjolras asked, following him.

“Sincerity is dead. Nothing matters. Words are _useless_. People lie-- really, take your pick.”

“I don’t lie,” Enjolras said, grabbing his bag and throwing it over his shoulder again.

Grantaire didn’t look at him. He plucked the scissors out of Enjolras’s hand and put them back. Evidently taking down the rest of Feuilly’s trap wasn’t on his To Do list -- but antagonising his most-easily-antagonised student was. “Oh, are we against generalising today?” He retorted. “I use the royal ‘we’ because I know how much you must love the idea of monarchy.”

Enjolras’s expression darkened. “ _Nothing_ matters to you?” He repeated, mixing bitterness with mocking disbelief. “Not even _art_?”

Grantaire actually laughed out loud. “Holy shit,” he said around his cigarette. “You really don’t pay attention in class, do you?” He took another long drag while Enjolras visibly fumed.

He didn’t know that his remark struck a chord.

To anyone that didn’t know him, it sometimes seemed like Enjolras only had two settings: disinterest, or aggressive passion. In some ways it was true -- he found it very easy to sort most of the things in his life into one of those categories. But he wasn’t heartless, and he wasn’t obtuse, and while he could be very, very rude sometimes -- he was capable of empathy.

He’d spent a month and change disgusted by an art professor who all but preached nihilism -- a professor who, in the wake of Enjolras becoming aware of how much Combeferre trusted him, casually admitted _he_ might be lacking in sincerity .

He wasn’t fuming. He was very rapidly retreating from blind loathing to a wary, but sharp curiosity.

He was very still -- it was a very creepy habit of his when he was thinking. Maria once admitted to Courfeyrac that Enjolras scared her most when he was doing “that dissecting stare thing that he does.” Courfeyrac had given her a very reassuring hug. (And then quietly agreed.)

Grantaire clicked his tongue. Enjolras’s reaction -- or lack of one -- had given him an idea.

“You really wanna apologise?” He asked.

Enjolras nodded.

“Then there is something you can do for me.”

“Do?” Enjolras repeated as Grantaire turned away from him again.

Grantaire picked up a clipboard. With his cigarette in his hand, he flipped through the pages. “Problem?” He pulled a single sheet out from somewhere in the middle.

“I don’t understand--”

Grantaire waved the paper at him.

Enjolras fought back a sigh -- but he walked up to his professor once again, and took the flyer from his hand.

“I’m the lucky bastard who coordinates life models for figure drawing classes,” Grantaire explained, as Enjolras read. He didn’t sound the least bit happy about it -- which coincided with the boring, uninspired advertisement. “It doesn’t pay, and there’s no credit. Needless to say, it’s hard to get volunteers.”

Enjolras’s gaze lifted from the page to Grantaire’s face. For once the art teacher was looking directly back at him.

“The model for Thursday night bailed, and I haven’t been able to find a replacement. It’s not my class, but I’m in charge, so...” Grantaire smirked. “You feel an obsessive need to right some imaginary wrongs? Volunteer.”

Enjolras’s mouth thinned. “To be a model.”

“A nude one, actually,” Grantaire clarified nonchalantly. He tapped the flyer. “Strictly volunteer. I don’t give a shit about how much you don’t like me,” he said, laughing. “I don’t. I don’t care, and I don’t need you to apologise, because apologies? Fuck off, there is nothing more stupid. But if you’re adamant -- you can do this. Actions speak louder than words and all that shit. And I’ll... pretend to let it go, or whatever.”

“What happened to _nothing_ means anything?” Enjolras asked.

Grantaire chuckled. “While that is true--” Enjolras rolled his eyes. “At the end of the day, I like having a pack of smokes in my pocket.”

Enjolras clearly didn’t get it.

“I’d rather have something I can smoke,” Grantaire told him, “or drink, or eat, or fuck, than some words that I can do absolutely nothing with.”

“How hedonistic.”

“I try,” Grantaire replied with a cheeky, and surprisingly devilish grin.

Enjolras frowned, but shrugged. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

Grantaire popped his cigarette back in his mouth and wrote ‘Blue Eyes’ on his chart. Enjolras briefly wondered if his professor actually knew what his name was, but Grantaire distracted him with another comment. “You sound reluctant.”

“This sounds unpleasant,” Enjolras replied.

Grantaire smiled. But he looked up again and said, “ _Honestly_? I think a little vulnerability could do you a lot of good.”

 


	9. Chapter 9

[text] Enjolras: Sorry. I can’t make it.  
[text] Courfeyrac: no  
[text] Enjolras: I agreed to do this.  
[text] Courfeyrac: UNAGREE  
[text] Courfeyrac: you already AGREED to be here!!  
[text] Enjolras: I’m sorry.  
[text] Courfeyrac: this is stupid  
[text] Courfeyrac: how long is it????  
[text] Enjolras: I’m not sure.  
[text] Courfeyrac: there’s a penis joke there and i’m too annoyed to make it

Courfeyrac shoved his phone in his pocket with an annoyed grumble. He was glad he wasn’t on campus. If he’d been any nearer to Enjolras, he might have marched right over there and...

Well, at least given him a very stern look. It was hard to be mad at Enjolras -- he had a surprisingly innocent face for someone so hellbent on destroying the global economic structure. Like a fierce little kitten that was five parts angelically-gold fluff and one part rage.

In minutes that stern look would have dramatically faded into the most miserable, unbearable puppy dog eyes anyone had ever witnessed. And moping. Just unfathomable moping. And insistently sitting on Enjolras’s lap to sulk about everything under the sun, because clearly everything was terrible when his very best and longest-lasting friend preferred  _abandoning_  him for some art thing over coming to a pre-arranged, elaborately planned birthday bonanza.

Courfeyrac sighed. His shoulders sagged towards the floor with the weight of his newfound sadness.

The only upside to his lap-sitting reaction would have been Enjolras kindly wrapping his arms around Courfeyrac and holding him until he felt better. Enjolras was good at snuggles. It would have been his way of apologising for being a horrible, terrible, very bad, no good friend.

His phone shook in his pocket. For a brief moment he considered not looking at it.

But Courfeyrac just wasn’t that kind of person.

[text] Enjolras: I can’t make it to lunch either. Got an e-mail from Lamarque’s admin.

Courfeyrac’s indignant squeak echoed around the quiet little café.

He growled as he typed back.

[text] Courfeyrac: I HATE YOU SO MUCH RIGHT NOW  
[text] Courfeyrac: djdgkhfjkhdlf  
[text] Enjolras: sorry x

Courfeyrac stood up abruptly.

It really didn’t need saying, but he didn’t hate Enjolras -- not even a little bit. He was sad, and he hated feeling sad. He’d get over it -- but first he needed sugar.

A truly frightening amount of sugar.

Hot cocoa was the obvious solution. Under Maria’s, Joly’s, and Enjolras’s orders he wasn’t allowed to have caffeine, and literally everybody on Earth knew that there was no point to decaf coffee. But to be honest, he preferred cocoa anyway.

 _Chocolate chaud_  -- it was God’s own hopes and dreams in a mug.

He reached for the whipped cream. A dollop rapidly escalated into a mountain, but he didn’t care. As far as he was concerned, it was necessary. Enjolras had consigned him to a solitary lunch, even though he adamantly hated eating alone -- which reminded him, he’d better order a sandwich while he was up -- and he needed the whipped cream to combat the insult that his best friend had dealt him.

It certainly helped that the boy behind the sandwich counter was incredibly cute. He gave him a friendly smile while he waited for his food, but nothing more. As precocious as he was, he made a point in life not to flirt too bluntly with cashiers and salespeople who were working -- it just never seemed very fair to him.

He was licking whipped cream off his nose and very deliberately avoiding chatting him up when he heard an all too familiar laugh just behind him.

He turned around slowly. His chest already felt sore and tight.

Framed in the most spectacularly romantic light from the café window, his ethereally beautiful poetry professor sat with his feet tucked under him, having lunch with the librarian, Mabeuf.

Courfeyrac grabbed the espresso machine for support.

Somehow -- with some incredible luck -- he managed not to knock it over. The boy behind the sandwich counter spared him further embarrassment by calling him up to collect his sandwich. He released the espresso machine and staggered forward.

If only his habit of not flirting with people at work had applied to teachers. As he massaged his chest with one hand and clutched his cocoa with the other, he felt that he might have been much better off if he’d expanded that rule early on, and stuck to it. Maybe Cosette and Enjolras were right. Maybe he did go a little bit overboard with his infatuation. But -- he pursed his lips -- if they were weighing weird romantic decisions, Cosette and Maria had spent the first six months of theirs just eyeing each other across a courtyard without saying anything, and Courfeyrac -- personally -- felt that was exceptionally creepy, so.

So, he sighed, grabbed his sandwich, and turned to go back to his table.

He walked straight into Jehan.

Jehan squeaked and Courfeyrac stared, and both of them tried to apologise simultaneously.

“Sorry, I was--”

“I’m sorry, you go--”

“Courfeyrac?”

Jehan’s head tilted to the side in surprise. Courfeyrac smiled at him sheepishly. He waved his sandwich and his drink, and mumbled, “Lunch...”

Jehan blinked, and nodded.

An increasingly awkward silence followed, until they both tried to talk again.

“I’ll just--”

“Do you want to come sit--”

“What?”

Jehan ducked his head. A faint redness crept across his cheeks as he laughed quietly. Courfeyrac glanced to his side to see how far away the espresso machine was this time.  

“Sorry,” Jehan continued, once it was obvious that Courfeyrac wasn’t going to speak again. (He couldn’t. He was absolutely positive that if he opened his mouth, he’d only be able to bleat like a sheep.) “Do you want to come sit? I’m by the window, with Monsieur Mabeuf. I was just getting some more cocoa...”

Courfeyrac’s head felt fuzzy. Was he on the floor? Was he still somehow upright? He wasn’t sure.

Slowly, he nodded. “Sure-- if you don’t mind?”

“No, not at all. Mabeuf’s almost finished, but...” Jehan trailed off and shrugged.

“Great, yeah. I’ll... meet you over there,” Courfeyrac answered. If his legs worked, he thought. Jehan all but beamed at him, and turned towards the drinks area.

With a great deal of effort, Courfeyrac shuffled towards Jehan’s table. His chest hurt more than before, which he hadn’t thought possible. He couldn’t do anything about it, because his hands were full. And to top it all off, he felt doubly betrayed -- first by Enjolras, for landing him in this situation, and secondly, by hot cocoa, which was almost too much to bear.

He hadn’t noticed Prouvaire and Mabeuf when he’d first sat down because the cocoa and other drinks (but most importantly -- the cocoa) stood directly in his line of sight. It had blocked his view, leaving him unaware and wholly unprepared.

He was floored. Honestly, he felt as though he might never trust cocoa ever again. Enjolras he could forgive -- but ...cocoa.

Jehan appeared at his side right as he got to the table, and slipped past him to sink back into his window seat. His feet came up off the floor immediately, making him look very much like a contented cat.

“Do you mind if Courfeyrac joins us?” Jehan purred at the librarian. “He’s one of my students.”

Mabeuf looked up. His old, but bright and cheerful face didn’t look like it could carry a shred of disagreement, and he quickly shook his head. “No, no! Not at all, by all means! Actually--” He stood up. “Here, take my seat while it’s warm.” Courfeyrac opened his mouth to protest, but Mabeuf blitzed right past it. He wasn’t one to disagree, and he brooked no disagreement. “I insist,” he continued. “I have to get back to the school. Too much to do this afternoon.”

Courfeyrac nodded, thanking him quietly.

Mabeuf beamed at him. “Very lucky you are,” he said, picking up his cup. “To be taking one of our Miss Prouvaire’s classes. She’s the best in her department.” He brushed a finger over his lips. “Not that I’m biased.” His eyes seemed to sparkle as he glanced at Jehan -- who had turned scarlet from head to toe. “And I’ll bring you that orchid, first thing.”

Jehan nodded quickly. “Thank you, monsieur.”

Mabeuf bid them both a very fond adieu, and left.

Jehan gestured at the newly empty seat across the table.

Courfeyrac put his cup and sandwich down, and sat.

“How are you?” Jehan asked casually, clutching his mug between his hands.

“Good,” Courfeyrac answered. “And all caught up on my assignments, before you ask.” He grinned.

Jehan snorted. “I wasn’t going to, but I appreciate it all the same.”

“You?” Courfeyrac added, unwrapping his sandwich.

“Quite well, actually.” He paused for a moment, sipping his drink before asking, “Did you like the book?”

It took Courfeyrac a moment to process what Jehan was referring to. He hadn’t thought about the book of poetry that Jehan had leant him since Saturday, and -- to be honest -- he was more than a little bit distracted trying to figure out if he’d misheard Mabeuf a few minutes ago. He wouldn’t have been surprised -- he was always inclined to assume it was his mistake when those things happened, because they so often did.

But there wasn’t a lot of noise in café, and...

“Courfeyrac?”

Courfeyrac nodded quickly, eyes focusing on Jehan’s face again. He smiled. “I could hardly put it down.”  

Jehan beamed. “I thought so. Keats and Wordsworth were a little inspiration and new for their time, but I figured something more recent might resonate with you.”

“I liked it--” Courfeyrac picked up his drink. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so political, though? Usually professors avoid giving out material like that.” He gestured with his free hand. “Outside of the Poli Sci department, I mean.”

Was it his imagination, or was there a wicked little twinkle in Jehan’s eye?

“After our talks, I sort of assumed you would like that. Neruda was an avid communist.”

There was a smile on Courfeyrac’s mouth even as he sipped his cocoa. “I did. But I don’t wanna talk about it now. We’re supposed to schedule a meeting.”

Jehan seemed surprised. “What’s wrong with now?”

Courfeyrac put everything he had -- every little childhood lie, every acting class -- into looking as innocent as possible. “I like your office,” he said with a shrug. “I look for excuses to visit.”

He was already overboard. He could keep doggy-paddling, or he could give in and consign himself to the sea.

Surprise melted into yet another shy smile. “...well,” Jehan offered, “you will have to bring the book back eventually.”

Courfeyrac’s face lit up. “Good point. And then will you give me another?”

Jehan couldn’t seem to stop smiling. In a way, his expression matched Courfeyrac’s -- his was soft and sweet to Courfeyrac’s buoyant and bright, but the delight in their eyes was just the same.

“I can make some suggestions,” Jehan replied. “If you talk about Neruda with me now.”

Courfeyrac’s grin completely filled his face.

As always, hours slid by  without either of them noticing. Courfeyrac took huge, wolfish bites out of his sandwich every time Jehan got up to refill their mugs. Every minute in between they filled with easy, carefree conversation. They discussed Neruda in depth -- Jehan taught Courfeyrac everything he knew and loved about the poet’s life and political efforts, embellishing every detail with a relevant line of Neruda’s own poetry. Courfeyrac interjected every few minutes with things he remembered, and commented on the lines that had stuck out to him.

“Like that one-- I don’t remember what it was called, but it just struck me as so... Enjolras? Which is sort of surprising if I’m honest. He’s not the most poetic person.”

“Do you remember any of the lines?” Jehan had stretched out, with his back against the café window.

Courfeyrac shook his head. “But it was about love. Or his love, I mean. Someone Neruda loved, but it almost felt like...” He sighed, and stared off into space. “Like he wasn’t really writing to a person? He could have been, but the way I read it-- and okay, maybe I just spend way too much time in Enjolras’s company, but it felt like it wasn’t  _someone_ , so much as it was about... his country. About Chile.”

Jehan’s expression radiated fondness. He was silently applauding. He knew Courfeyrac had it in him to love poetry. He was absolutely brilliant. All it took was the right material.

“And I don’t know,” Courfeyrac continued. “I mean, I love people. A  _lot_.” He snorted. “But I really liked that. That it felt different.”

Jehan nodded quickly. “It’s a point of debate among scholars, but many academics agree with you. A number of Neruda’s poems can be read as dedications to his wife, or to Chile.”

“Why not both, right?” Courfeyrac said cheekily. “So maybe there’s hope for me? Maybe I won’t get a  _6_  on my next poetry homework?”

Jehan stifled a laugh.

In the space of a heartbeat the coyness evaporated from Courfeyrac’s being. His soul thrust itself forward, silently begging Jehan not to hold his laughter in.

Courfeyrac licked his lips slowly and picked up his mug, sipping his cold cocoa. Still delicious, if not very relieving.

‘Let it out. Let it out. Let it out,’ echoed in his head.

Both of them dropped their eyes to the table -- Jehan’s tracing the wood grain absently, and Courfeyrac’s almost violently burning a hole in his chocolate-stained saucer.

“There is one poem that I do remember pretty clearly,” Courfeyrac mumbled.

Jehan glanced up. “Yes?”

“I don’t remember how it starts, but there’s one line...” He paused and took a deep breath. Warm, red light spilled in through the café window, turning Jehan’s soft yellow hair a bright, fiery copper. Courfeyrac closed his eyes. He felt the words spill out of his mouth like honey. “I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body.”

He waited, but his stunning and elegant professor said nothing.

Courfeyrac opened his eyes again and found Jehan staring at him.

He hurriedly made a weak, dismissive sound, exhaling in a rush. “The next bit was less thrilling,” he added with a dry laugh. “The sovereign nose of your arrogant face? Literally Enjolras. Even though he has that sunbeam thing down too, I guess.”

Internally, Courfeyrac was swearing at himself. He was shouting over the desperate yearning of his own soul, ordering himself to keep fucking paddling. Jehan’s silence dragged on, and Courfeyrac shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

He was being completely stupid. He knew that. He’d always known it -- from that first morning when he’d marched into his suite and told Enjolras that his life was over. Prouvaire was his  _professor_. If nothing else, he must have had completely valid, ethical objections to flirting with his students -- and even then! There was no reason for Courfeyrac to even so much as dream that Jehan would ever want to flirt with him, because Jehan was beautiful and clever and wonderful and so perfectly sweet. What could someone like that possibly see in a floppy-haired bipedal puppy like him?

But Jehan derailed his train of self-loathing thoughts by quietly asking, “Do you love him?”

Courfeyrac blinked. His brain rapidly tried to catch up to the conversation. “Who, Neruda?” He considered it. “Uhhh... yeah, a bit I guess.”

Jehan smiled so gently that Courfeyrac had to bite back an actual whimper. “No,” he corrected. “I meant Enjolras.”

There was a half-second pause before Courfeyrac started laughing. “Oh, God no. I mean-- okay, yeah. Obviously I do a little bit. He’s my best friend. And I used to! You know. Like  _that_.”

Jehan listened intently, his expression unchanging.

“I mean, he’s beautiful, don’t get me wrong. Like, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous, if you’re into that whole avenging angel slash Greek god aesthetic -- which I definitely have been. But...” Courfeyrac scratched the back of his neck just a little awkwardly. “I fall in love really easily. And yes, I’m pretty bad at distinguishing how much or why I love someone, but. There’s someone else. Right now. Someone that I love like Neruda does in that poem.”

Jehan recited softly. “And I pace around hungry. Sniffing the twilight. Hunting for you, for your hot heart.”

Courfeyrac breathed out slowly. “Yeah,” he replied. “Just like that.”

The sun had slipped behind the buildings on the opposite side of the street, and yet -- for whatever reason, Jehan still seemed to glow to him. He shook his head rubbed his eyes quickly.

“Can I ask you a personal question?”

Was it his imagination, or did Jehan hesitate? “Yes,” his professor replied.

“...when I walked over, and Mabeuf was talking about you.” Jehan immediately blushed, biting his lip to reign in a smile. Courfeyrac felt slightly relieved. He had some experience with the topic, but that only made asking something so private feel more awkward. “Okay, so I didn’t imagine that, right? I have some difficulty hearing things.”

He turned his head to the side, and tapped his ear -- pointing out one of his hearing aids. Surprise briefly flitted over Jehan’s face.

“But I’m pretty positive I heard him say ‘Miss’ and ‘she’ and ‘her’... should I not be calling you ‘Sir’, in class?”

“Courfeyrac, you don’t call me ‘Sir’ ever.”

Courfeyrac thought about it for a moment. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Jehan sat up and turned to face him, folding his hands in front of him on the table. “Obviously I dress a little eccentrically.”

“It’s cute,” Courfeyrac said instantly.

Jehan grinned, and explained. “Monsieur Mabeuf assumed I was female the first time we were introduced, and I never bothered to correct him. I don’t mind. I actually... like it.”

Courfeyrac nodded.

“With a few exceptions, my colleagues think of me as Monsieur Prouvaire. My birth certificate says I’m male, and that’s...” He took a deep breath. Courfeyrac fought the urge to reach out and hold his hand. “It’s easier than trying to explain what’s actually correct, when I’m not entirely certain myself.” He looked up, meeting Courfeyrac’s eyes.

Courfeyrac didn’t look away.

“I’m not male,” Jehan told him. “And I’m not female. I know that’s difficult for a lot of people to accept--”

“No.” Courfeyrac shook his head. “I understand. My friend, Ma--” As quickly as he opened his mouth, he closed it again, and puffed out his cheeks.

Jehan stared at him.

“Sorry, I got-- sometimes my mouth gets ahead of my brain, and wants to talk about things it’s not supposed to. That’s why I was nervous to ask. Not everyone is ready to talk about this openly.”

“That’s true, and I appreciate your concern. I don’t mind that you asked. I’d appreciate if you wouldn’t announce it to our class, though.”

“I won’t.” Courfeyrac straightened up and made an X over his heart. “I swear.” Jehan’s smile returned. “Should I continue saying ‘he’ when I refer to you? Like if I’m talking to Cosette or something.”

Jehan nodded. “I would prefer it.”

“And... what if it’s just us, like in your office?” There had been so many silences between them already that afternoon that another hardly seemed significant -- but it was, because neither of them noticed it. A streetlamp flared to life just beyond the window, bathing them both in a dull, yellow glow, and still they wordlessly met each others’ eyes.

Jehan opened his mouth. Courfeyrac’s gaze dropped to his lips briefly.

“There are hundreds of options outside of male and female,” Jehan told him. “More, really, and I know that I fall somewhere in the middle. But I don’t know where, and I don’t really know that I want to commit to anything without thinking about it a little more.”

Courfeyrac listened intently.

“...but you can use ‘she’ privately, if you want.” Jehan noticeably wasn’t blushing. There was a bright, determined spark in her eyes. “I think I’d like that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update after seven months is a super scary thing, but i'm 98% sure i managed to keep all the threads together consistently! and if anyone is still reading this, lmao. enjoy! xo

**Author's Note:**

> Jean Prouvaire, Grantaire, and Combeferre are university professors in their mid to late twenties. Coufeyrac, Enjolras, Joly, Eponine, Cosette, and Maria* Pontmercy are undergraduate students. Bossuet and Bahorel are technically law school students. Musichetta is an intern in medical school. Feuilly* is not a student. 
> 
> *Both Pontmercy and Feuilly are female in this story.


End file.
